#and even then he's probably out for too long for it to be more than business coworker relationships

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Flesh Wound - Dr. Jack Abbot x chef!reader

Summary: 2.5k words. Dr. Abbot's wife's cancels date night after suffering a kitchen mishap. In an effort to avoid adding to his stress, she takes herself--and her bloody hand--to the Pitt without telling him.

Warnings: canon-typical gore, blood, graphic descriptions of wounds, & knives. Colorful language, per usual. Implied age gap. breaking select grammar rules because I can. not beta read.

a/n: This got away from me and is longer than necessary lmao. I’m not in love with it, but I need to get it out of my brain and drafts so it stops plaguing me. Enjoy my first Pitt fic! Divider credit!

“Fuck!” you hissed. The kitchen came to a standstill around you; your cooks, dishwashers, and wait staff suddenly focused on the angry gash on your hand.

Abby’s was your pride and joy. Back in the day, culinary school felt like a gamble and then some. Today, you thank your lucky stars that it panned out well. The restaurant you’d built from the ground up was often featured in local publications and had grown into a neighborhood hub—it was a success from the day you first opened the doors to the public.

On days you didn’t stay at work for the full evening rush—like tonight, when you had your silver fox of a husband waiting at home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and the full Netflix catalogue at your fingertips—you at least made sure to come in for a couple hours in the afternoon to help set up and ensure your staff had all the support they needed for a successful night.

Amid prep work for a new dish you were piloting, you looked away at just the wrong moment when your name was called, resulting in the unmistakable piercing feeling shooting through your hand. You’d nicked yourself. Well, more than nicked yourself, because you were now bleeding at a rate that would have Javadi passed out cold on the floor.

This certainly wasn’t your first knife injury and probably wouldn’t be your last. You haphazardly cleaned up your station as best you could while holding pressure to the wound with a towel. Accidents happen to everyone, no matter how long they’ve been in the industry. That didn’t mean it wasn’t embarrassing to slice your palm open in front of the staff who were supposed to look up to you. 

You bit your lip and willed the tears to stay at bay after closing your office door. You tried taking deep breaths as you sat on the edge of your desk. In for 4, out for 8. In for 5, out for 10.

It didn’t help much.

This hurts like a bitch, you cursed through the unrelenting stinging. It was worse than any other kitchen injuries you’d had in recent memory. You remembered your husband rambling about how the hands were one of the most highly vascularized parts of the body. When it bleeds, it bleeds, he said to you. You were acutely aware of that now.

The bleeding wasn’t showing signs of stopping anytime soon, even after you’d soaked through two hand towels. Jack had taught you quite a bit of first aid and then some over the years, but even you recognized that you couldn’t patch yourself up. When a little fuzzy feeling began to sink in, you knew it was time to seek medical attention from a professional who wouldn’t spiral at the mere notion of you being harmed.

Sure, you could’ve called your trauma doctor husband, who seldom went anywhere without his ‘go bag’, but that would make too much sense. You didn’t want Jack to worry about you. He did anyway, but you didn’t want to add to his stress. The salt and pepper hair suited him well–you frequently reminded him when you carded your fingers through his curls–but if he went full-on gray, you might be accused of grave robbing.

“Doctor Abbot speaking,” the man grunted in greeting. The trauma doc hadn’t looked at the caller ID before answering. Or maybe his mind was still filled with the post-night shift sleep haze.

“Hey, honey,” you smiled through the phone despite your barely contained anxiety. The fresh towel you left the restaurant with was quickly turning crimson. The walk to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was 15 minutes, and you prayed that you’d make it there before the towel was soaked through or before you passed out—whichever would come first.

Your voice washed over Jack like warm honey. His shoulders relaxed and he sighed deeply. Per usual, he hadn’t realized how tense he was until you dissolved his stress.

“Hello, my beautiful wife,” he flirted through the phone, the corners of his lips ticking up into a smile. Several years into your relationship, he could still make you blush.

“I know we planned to stay in tonight and watch a movie, but I’m gonna have to stay at the restaurant late. We got slammed, and I need to make sure the team has everything they need.” That counted as a white lie, right? Jack and his wife didn’t keep secrets. But this time, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, you rationalized. You would tell him once you were all stitched up, snuggling at home with him, and not pale as a ghost. You would tell him when you could laugh about it, at how silly the oopsie you made in the kitchen was. Right now you were not laughing.

Abbot nodded, though you couldn’t see it. Your dedication to making sure your staff were taken care of was admirable; you were always so attentive, caring, and considerate. But selfishly, Jack would’ve given his other leg to spend a night with his wife. 

It wasn’t like you both weren’t used to taking rainchecks. Sometimes chefs called out sick and you had to step up, or put out metaphorical and literal fires. Other times, Jack’s pager seemed to be determined to set a record for most received messages.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. We can do something tomorrow.” It was a promise they’d hold each other to.

Years in service to the military and working in healthcare–emergency medicine, no less–meant he was used to change and could be flexible, to say the least. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be miserable to everyone around him until he saw his wife again.

Keeping a low profile at the Pitt was damn near impossible given your reputation.

The ER staff were well acquainted with Dr. Abbot’s wife, the pretty lady who brought them food. It started when you brought Jack dinner, and then Dana too. Sometimes Robby if you caught him at the right time. Eventually, you’d occasionally drop off catering-sized orders from Abby’s to be shared amongst the Pitt staff, just because.

A concerning majority of the providers, nurses, techs, RTs, and radiology staff survived 13-hour shifts on protein bars and far more milligrams of caffeine than was considered safe for human consumption. (It was a good thing they had plenty of 12 leads and crash carts full of pharm goodies for when a staff member inevitably developed a caffeine-induced dysrhythmia.) When the smell of Dr. Abbot’s wife’s food filled the Pitt, they knew they were in for a treat.

“You got any food for us, Mrs. Abbot?” Lupe asked as you approached the thick registration desk glass, before her eyes fell to your hand cradled against your chest. Definitely not catering.

Unfortunately for you, the third towel was fully saturated by the time you made it through the lobby’s double doors. The fuzzy feeling from earlier was quickly advancing to woozy.

Lupe and Dana brought you straight back from triage, effectively bumping you to the top of the queue. Maybe it wasn’t entirely according to hospital policy, but they’d never hear the end of it from Abbot if he found out his wife was stuck in a waiting room while she bled out.

“Everything is still attached, but the cut’s deep,” you relayed to Dana, who hummed as she peeled back the towel to assess the damage.

“Your husband know you’re here?” Dana asked, raising an eyebrow at you expectantly. She knew the answer based on the fact that Abbot hadn’t tore through the damn building to get to you. Yet, anyway. She more so asked to give you a chance to reflect on your dumb decision to not inform your husband.

“I don’t want to stress him out. Please don’t tell him?” You pleaded.

“I won’t say anything, but I can’t control what happens when he sees his last name on the wrong part of the status board.” Her emphasis on when made it clear that it was only a matter of time, not if.

Of course he would pick up a shift once his evening freed up. He was a workaholic, but so were you. Birds of a feather.

When Doctor Robinavitch and Javadi pulled back the room’s curtain, Dana did the talking–nausea was setting in along with a wicked headache. You refused to look at the laceration at this point, eyes trained on the ceiling tiles above you.

“BP is soft,” Robby observed. Dana nodded while holding pressure to the wound with gauze. “Let’s start some IV fluids to get it back up; you definitely had some blood loss today.” Not helping, you thought as another wave of nausea rolled through you.

“She said she doesn’t want Dr. Abbot to know, and I’m not about to get in the middle of that. Plus, provider-patient confidentiality,” Robby finished with a shrug to Dana at the nurse’s station.

“Who doesn’t want me to know what?” Abbot asked, cosmic timing seemingly on his side. He was here far earlier than he needed to be for his shift, but he had nothing better to do Better than sulking at home, missing his wife. He’d still miss her while he was working, but at least he’d have an active distraction. His grip was firm on the strap of his camo backpack slung over his shoulder.

Robby groaned and his eyes scrunched shut as he slowly turned to face the night shift attending. Dana answered the nurse’s station phone within a nanosecond of the first shrill ring, leaving Robby to fend for himself.

Abbot looked at him expectantly, his patience quickly waning. Robby shook his head and vaguely nodded his head backwards, simply sighing “room 4” before getting back to work. Jack didn’t press for more info, just crossed the Pitt with long, purposeful strides. His heart dropped and the world around him slowed when he saw his wife laying back on a gurney, hooked up to IV fluids with gauze around her hand.

He didn’t bother to knock before entering, yanking the curtain open with an abrasive tug. He immediately started scanning you head to toe and noted the color drained from your face, a bloody rag in the biohazard bin, and the remnants of a suture kit in the waste bin.

“Baby, what the hell happened?” Jack asked, wild eyes bouncing between the vitals monitor to your tired form. You squeezed her eyes shut and cursed the fact that PTMC was the closest ER to Abby’s.

“I told Robby not to call you,” you grumbled. Your husband grunted.

“He didn’t call me. I picked up a shift.” You knew Jack wasn’t upset with you directly. Seeing you in the same department where patients regularly coded and trauma alerts rolled through at light speed to the trauma bay unnerved him.

You felt a twang of guilt in your chest. Jack wouldn’t have come in on his first night off in a while if you hadn’t canceled date night. And date night wouldn’t have been canceled if you’d just been paying more attention in the kitchen. You extended your unaffected hand to your husband and he grasped it in an instant. 

His tense shoulders and tight jaw gave him away. You hated to see him needlessly stressed, but it also warmed you in an odd way—how lucky you are to have someone care for you so deeply. Someone as weathered and worn as Jack, who has seen his fair share of trauma and then some, loves you to the point of worry. What a privilege that is.

Jack’s shift technically didn’t start for another 20 minutes. He had every intention of spending those minutes right by your side.

Saved by the bell a few minutes before shift change, Robby came back in for rounds, tailed by Javadi (who, to her credit, did not pass out at the sight of copious blood flowing from your hand earlier). “Hey, love birds,” Robby greeted with a grin. Abbot’s lips stayed pressed in a thin line while you smiled weakly back at the attending and the med student who followed him around like a little duckling.

Dr. Robinavitch gestured for Javadi to present the case to Dr. Abbot. The poor girl looked like a deer caught in headlights at the harsh stare Abbot pinned her with. Her gaze bounced from your joined hands back to the attending before she cleared her throat and began. Javadi described the depth of the laceration and the amount of stitches required, topical TXA, IV fluid bolus and subsequent drip for hypotension. Jack forced air from his nose before inhaling again, squeezing your hand tighter.

“Princess will be in shortly with your discharge paperwork and home care instructions,” Robby winked as he left you and Abbot by yourselves. Jack snorted. There was no way in hell you’d be caring for the wound yourself, not if he could help it.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Jack’s voice was quiet. He wasn’t mad, but rattled. You twisted your mouth to the side, feeling a bit of shame. This wasn’t how you imagined your evening going.

“Technically, I did… on my walk here…” you offered. It sounded weak even to your ears. Jack deadpanned. It didn’t land well. You sighed and rolled to face your husband fully. “I didn’t want you to worry about me,” you whispered, hoping your voice wouldn’t betray you. Jack pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I’m always going to worry about you, sweetheart. Because I love you.” His fingers traced your jawline. Jack, who woke up with night terrors well over a decade after the war-torn atrocities he’d seen, gazed at you tenderly. You had half a mind to make a ‘Tis but a scratch joke, but figured that might send him over the edge.

“I love you too.” It wasn’t a reply, it was a promise. Jack kissed the back of your hand, your fingers intertwined until he had to go.

Dr. Robinavitch hung around until he was satisfied with your blood pressure so he could drive you home. Even if you had politely declined, he would’ve stayed. Abbot certainly wouldn’t have let him hear the end of it if his wife had to take a taxi home from the ER. Robby guided you toward the exit, holding your bag and his. Gotta keep our patient satisfaction scores up.

Jack doffed his gloves while he jogged to meet you before you reached the door. He blindly tossed the blue nitrile gloves in the direction of the nearest waste bin, not bothering to check if he made it in. But they had, because of course they would. Cocky motherfucker.

Jack wordlessly pulled you to him, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand holding your head to his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

“Take it easy, okay?” The two of you could’ve been slow dancing in a burning room, but Jack wouldn’t have noticed. He tuned out the constant buzz of the Pitt and focused solely on you. You offered your free hand up for a pinkie promise.

If the med students and interns saw Dr. Abbot go soft—oh so whipped for his wife—and make a pinkie promise, they knew better than to say anything about it.

a/n: Reblogs & comments are much appreciated 🥰

Find more of my writing on my master list.

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[emmyrosee]

Rintaro feels guilty leaving this time.

You’re expected to deliver your twins any day next week, and he’s expected to fly across the country for a charity event he really can’t even think straight for. You've assured him you'll be fine, his sister is more than capable of taking care of you while he's gone, but there's a pit in his stomach about the idea of leaving you.

But you send him anyways. With a kiss on his cheek and a promise to call him every day (if he had it his way, it would be every hour, but you wouldn't go for it).

The trip goes smooth enough, and he's grateful for you staying true to your word and calling him every night. It does make the time pass, you're safe, but he's more than eager to make it home to you.

He practically pushes his teammates out the door, he's the first one on the bus, his knee bounces anxiously the entire time- especially when the bus driver makes a wrong turn into straight construction, thrusting them in traffic for far, far too long without any service.

But you won't call him, right? Why would you, you've called him at night every day he's been here, and nothing of note has happened (not that that’s a negative to Rintaro, he’d rather your days be mundane and boring than active in your pregnancy).

His heart finally starts again once they pull into the airport parking lot, all of the teammates trying to not be annoyed at the events of the morning and trying to stay focused on the next steps of boarding the plane in a few hours.

Rintaro sighs, slipping his phone out and immediately calling you, not taking notice of just how many notifications bombarded his phone.

The line ring once, twice, and his shoulders relax as you finally pick up the phone. "Rin?" You ask, and you sound like you're in discomfort. But he merely brushes it off. You are very pregnant, after all, surely discomfort is normal.

"Hey babe, just got service from being in the bus, we've got a nasty delay because the fuck-head made us miss our fucking flight, so I might be home later than expected-"

“Rin, I'm in labor.”

Silence fills the line.

“No you’re not,” he says simply.

“As much as I would love to be kidding, I’m not. I’m 10 centimeters, babe.”

How you’re so calm right now, is beyond him.

Him, on the other hand, leaps up with absolute panic, a screechy “WHAT?” echoing through the airport. It catches more than a few looks from other people, but all Rin can think about is you.

You in the hospital, legs up in stirrups and gown being the only thing adorning your body. There's probably nurses and doctors everywhere, and Kaiya and Akito on the couch at home with his mother, waiting for the news.

"WHEN?"

"My water broke a few hours ago, got to the hospital with your sister and now they're getting ready for me to push. Your timing truly is impeccable."

“And you thought now was the best time to tell me?!”

“I tried to tell you earlier, but you had no service!” You defend.

Fuck, he could scalp the bus driver for getting fucking lost.

"okay, okay, okay lets calm down-"

You snort, "yeah I'll get right on that."

"Please, for everything unholy, don't joke right now," he pleads, and he hears you offer him a laughy 'sorry' on your end of the line. "Are you okay? Do you feel okay?"

"Well I don't feel particularly good, for all intents and purposes." You direct your attention to something else and he hears bustling in the background, "Rin I have to start pushing. Stay on the line.”

"No! Wait for me, I'll-"

"Yeah I'm not waiting for you," you snip. “I'll... be fine. Just stay on the call okay? For me?

Rintaro tries not to pass out as you start pushing, doctors encouragement coming through on the line, followed with your grunts of agony as you try to bring your two new babies into the world. He knows you’re strong, you don’t need him there, but there’s something deep inside of him that hurts at the idea that you don’t, he’s so close yet no where near close enough to be right there next to you, and he anxiously looks around him as he tries to find a private place for him to cheer you on, call your name, scream it, his soul in agony over something he has no control over.

It could be four minutes or four hours, rintaro has no idea as you finally scream in agony as a small wail breaks over the line, one akin to Akito and Kaiya’s as the two of them entered the world all those years ago.

“Beautiful!” His sister cheers, “just a bit more for Sachiko sis, you’ve got this!”

“No more,” you weakly whimper over the line, and Rintaro tears up as he chews on his thumb.

“Baby,” he chokes, “you’ve got this, okay? You can do this, I’m right here.”

“No you’re not!” You scream.

“Yes I am! I’m right here okay? I’m not going anywhere!”

“Rin I need you-“

“And I’m right here. I promise. Just close your eyes, I’m there, okay?”

Hes not there. He knows you know that. But right now, he can’t feel sorry for himself. He goes silent and listens to the bustling of the doctors and nurses preparing to bring Sachiko into the world, and rintaro has no clue how long it’s been before you’re ready to push again.

“Ready, momma?” He asks, and you let out a sob.

“Im so tired, Rin.”

“One more big push okay?” He chokes. “Push!”

And you do. You let out another shriek as you start to push, rintaro can practically see your legs tremble and face scrunch and throat tight as you let out another blood curdling cry, and before he can think, another set of crying fills the line.

His twins are here.

And he’s not.

“Good job, angel!” He hoots.

“She did so good, Rintaro,” his sister assures.

“I know she did,” he says, hand clutching his heart.

“They’re so handsome Rin,” You babble, and instantly, Rintaro’s face drops. “Such beautiful boys, they're so sweet, so handsome…”

Boys?

Oh fuck. Rintaro briefly thinks back at all the purples and pinks in the closet at home.

Immediately, Rin tries to conjure up an excited tone, squealing out a soft “boys?” in confirmation.

“She’s messing with you," his sister snickers. You’re laughing exhaustedly too, among your sniffles of agony and above the screaming of the newest twin.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” he says, breathless and his chuckles easing out.

“You've got new baby girls, Rintaro," his sister coos.

“We got them, boys!” He announces, causing an uproar of cheers to come from his teammates. He feels his heart sink to his stomach as his throat begins to swell. “I’m so proud of you baby… my good girls.”

“They’re so beautiful, Rin. So beautiful," you cry.

He sits on his suitcase and tries to imagine them, desperately, tiny hands pawing at the air, crying at the newness of the bright light and the world…

All without him. He’s not there.

“Who was born first?” He chokes, desperate to keep his voice steady. It was a complete tossup with the names, whoever was out first or second is precisely how the names would fall. But he just needs you to keep talking to him.

You understand, and you answer shakily, “Sachie,” you sigh. “Sachiko was 20 minutes later.”

“Late; just like momma.”

“Watch it.”

He chuckles around a flood of tears, a hand coming up to bring his hand up to cover his face. Hot, bubbled tears slip down to roll over his thick fingers, trying to stay composed in the airport that’s bustling with too many people.

“Im so proud of you,” he chokes, eyes screwing shut. Not long after, a massive hand claps down on his shoulder, Komori’s eyes flickering with understanding and apology. He’s got nothing to apologize for, but Rintaro takes the kindness regardless and puts a free hand on top of his to squeeze the emotions out. “My amazing girl. Fuck, I can’t wait to see you.”

“Rin, I have to go,” you say, and he hears the gruff voice of the doctor. “I love you so much. Come home safe, you’re no use to me dead.”

“Okay, princess,” he sighs shakily, burying his face in Komori’s stomach to cry. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby. You’re gonna be fine.”

He’s 99% sure he should be saying that to you, and not you to him. But regardless.

He waits for the line to die before taking the phone from his ear, blinking up at Komori with absolute heaviness in his heart.

“I should’ve been there,” he whimpers.

“You couldn’t control it, buddy.”

“But I should’ve been there. Not three cities over for some charity that I don't even care about."

It doesn’t matter the assurances Komori could try to pass him. It doesn’t matter that you’re okay, you’re strong and you don’t need him in this moment.

He should’ve been there to squeeze your hand, watch his two babies come into this world with you, kiss your forehead and whisper loving words in your ear.

And he couldn’t manage even that.

[heavenlybodies333]

Jealousy is a Hell of a Drug - S.R

Spencer Reid x jealousgf!reader

You didn’t plan on drinking tonight.

Honestly, you thought it’d just be a casual get-together—Emily had called it “team bonding,” and Rossi was buying, so who were you to say no? Spencer hadn’t been able to stop rambling about this new book he’d read, you’d teased him for talking through the appetizer menu, and everything had been perfect.

Until she walked in. Dr. Madison Keane. Nuclear physicist. MIT doctorate. His “joint dissertation partner,” whatever the fuck that meant. All you knew was she was tall, gorgeous, and practically hanging off of Spencer’s arm like she belonged there.

“Oh my God, Spencer?” she gasped, her hand finding his bicep. “I didn’t even recognize you without the curls!”The rest of the team greeted her, cordial and curious. Spencer was glowing—introducing everyone, detailing exactly how he and Madison had co-authored some impossible dissertation about nuclear subparticles. And when his eyes finally turned to you, “This is—”

You didn’t let him finish. You looped your arm through Emily’s and flashed him your sweetest, fakest smile. “We’re getting a drink.” Two absinthe shots later and you slammed the glass down and glared at the mirrored wall. “Do you like her?” you asked Emily, too loud.

She choked on her shot, laughing behind her hand. “Is this a trap?”

“She’s not even that pretty,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “And what kind of bitch doesn’t understand personal space why is she touching him like that?”

“She probably earned it,” Emily teased, nudging your shoulder. “Co-writing a dissertation’s practically marriage.”

God that made you angrier, “She talks to him like I’m not even real. Who even says 'nuclear physics' at a bar?” Emily patted your back. “The kind of girl who wants to fuck your boyfriend.”

“Exactly!” you said pissed off. You turned around. They were still talking—too close, too intimate. You saw Madison’s fingers trail down his arm again, and that was it.

You stormed back to the table with an empty smile and a new drink. “So how do you two know each other again?” you asked, cutting Spencer off mid-sentence.

He blinked at you. “She’s from MIT. We—”

“Oh, right. Nuclear physics,” you said, taking a long sip. “Because quantum entanglement just isn’t sexy enough at parties.”

Madison laughed politely. “It’s more fun than it sounds, I promise.”

“Sure,” you smiled tightly. “I’m sure you two had so much fun.”

Her voice sweet, her smile practiced. You knew girls like her. Hell, you used to be girls like her. Overly confident. Insecure in the worst way—like she needed you to know she had history with Spencer. “You must be his… coworker?” she asked, voice sugar-laced poison.

You smiled back tightly. “Girlfriend.”

Her mouth twitched. “Oh! I didn’t realize…”, eyes flicking up and down like she was scanning for weaknesses, and said sweetly, “It must be so nice dating someone so smart.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, completely ignoring her. You looked her up and down. “You still in academia?”

She smirked. “Of course. Published just last month, actually. I’m surprised Spencer hasn’t mentioned it. But then again… maybe he’s just too busy.”

You tilted your head, biting your cheek.

“I mean, I can’t imagine it’s easy to have a relationship when one person’s reading quantum mechanics before breakfast and the other’s... tagging along.” You lasted another 30 seconds before she leaned in to whisper something into Spencer’s ear, fingers still on his sleeve, and that was it. Your drink flew. Straight into her smug face.

You didn’t wait for the gasp or the splash or Spencer’s stunned voice. You just turned on your heel and walked out the front door, head held high, fury burning behind your ribs like napalm.

Behind you, you heard him—“Madison, I’m so sorry, she’s—” You heard him apologize to her—apologize to HER—and your stomach flipped with betrayal.

Fuck him.

You were halfway down the block when you heard his voice behind you. You didn’t slow down. Not until his hand caught your wrist, pulling you gently but firmly to a stop on the sidewalk. “Baby wait—”

You yanked your arm free. “Go back to her, Spencer.”

“What? No. No—fuck—don’t do that.” His voice cracked with confusion. “Why did you throw a drink at her?!” You ignored him, continuing to walk away from him, tears welling up in your eyes.

“Stop walking! Jesus—would you please talk to me?”

“Talk to your dissertation partner!” you snapped, spinning to face him. “You two can split atoms together and jerk each other off over how smart you are!”

Spencer blinked. “Are you seriously mad that I ran into a colleague?”

“You apologized to her,” you hissed. “She had her hands all over you—”

“She hugged me—”

“She touched your bicep, Spencer!”

“I didn’t ask her to!”

“But you didn’t stop her either.”

Silence.

“I don’t like her. I don’t want her. I want you,” he said, voice low, pained. “God, baby. I didn’t even notice she was touching me. I was trying to introduce you.”

You turned around and wouldn’t face him, arms crossed and as you went to sit down angrily on the curb you lost your balance falling back on the sidewalk right on your ass.

Spencer’s mouth opened and closed. “You’re drunk.”

“No.” you answered hotly.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Let’s go home.”

“I’m not done yelling at you.”

“You can yell at me all you want. Just not in the middle of the street.” He stared at you, jaw clenched. Then he pulled out his phone and ordered the Uber without another word.

You didn’t speak again until you were inside his apartment, shoes off, arms crossed, fuming. “I hate her.”

“She’s not important.”

You turned to him. “Then why did you defend her?”

“Because she didn’t deserve to get humiliated in public.”

“What about me?” your voice cracked. “Do I deserve to feel like I’m second best?”

His expression softened instantly. “No. God, no. You’re not—”

“I can’t believe you apologized to her.”

“I had to,” he said tightly. “You threw a drink in her face.”

“She deserved it.”

“She didn’t.”

“She was all over you.”

“She was being friendly. She was an old colleague.”

You scoffed, turning away. “Right. Another genius. Maybe you’d be happier with someone like that. Someone who understands your fucking dissertations.”

Spencer didn’t reply. He came up behind you instead—his hands sliding around your waist, his voice soft in your ear. “You’re the only one I want baby, I promise. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to understand every part of you—because every time I do, I fall in love all over again.”

You let him guide you to the bed, fingers pulling your dress up as he kisses down your thighs. Gasping as he pulled your panties down, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder. When his head dipped between your thighs, he held your legs open, eyes locking with yours.

“Let me make it better,” he said. His fingers dug into your thighs to keep you in place, and he moaned against your cunt like he needed this, needed you. His mouth was heaven—soft, insistent, relentless. He licked and sucked like he had all the time in the world, humming when your thighs clenched around him, praising you between licks.

“God, you’re so good for me. So sweet when you’re not being a brat.” He grinned against your skin. “My perfect girl.”

You whimpered. “Don’t think about her,” he said, tongue circling your clit. “She’s gone. Only you now.”

“Spence,” you moaned. He flattened his tongue, slow strokes that made your head spin. Your fingers tangled in his hair as your head tipped back, heat coiling in your belly. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I was so—”

“Don’t,” he said gently, curling one finger inside you now, his mouth still relentless. “You don’t ever have to apologize for loving me like that.”

You cried out, hips twitching, the world melting into the feeling of his mouth, his hands, his praise like poetry spilling from his lips.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he moaned. “Give it to me, baby. Let go. That’s my good girl.”

Your hips bucked. “Spencer—oh—fuck.” legs shaking, thighs clenching around his head.

When he pulled back, lips glistening, he pressed soft kisses to your thighs and looked up at you with those impossibly kind eyes. “I don’t care how many dissertations I wrote with her,” he went on, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I love you, I love how you dont like pickles with anything and always give me your extra one, I love how your favorite things to collect are those little teacups, I love getting to cook for you, I love that you’re smart in ways that can’t be measured with letters after your name. I love you now and forever. ”

You finally exhaled. “I love you too.”

He was yours. Nuclear physics bitch be damned.

a/n: okayyy papiiiichulo

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[starrdream]

Years

Anakin Skywalker x f!reader summary: Anakin sees you for the first time after a decade includes: SMUT, oral(f receiving), slight praise

Months turned into years-ones that seemed to last longer than they should, ones that stretched beyond time. He hadn't forgotten. No. He couldn't and he simply never will. That was something he made peace with long before it was over.

How could he? How does one forget something so pure, innocent and beautiful? How could he erase the happiest memories that could never be remade?

Every detail was crystal clear in his mind. Partially because he kept replaying various situations in his head every night, partially because he couldn't forget.

And even if he could, why would he? Why would he forget those eyes full of life? The laughter? The things he felt? No, he definitely didn't want to forget that.

Anakin Skywalker's life had been haunted by the past for the last 11 years. 11 years of melancholy, 11 years of longing, yearning...

So seeing you again was like a punch to the gut.

The small and rebellious Senator's daughter was no more. She was long gone, together with Anakin's memories. Instead she was replaced by something even more beautiful and dear.

You were the same age as him, yet so much more mature, more serious than him. He didn't want to acknowledge your beauty in fear of betraying what the Jedi had been teaching him for the last decade.

He never would've thought you'd be back but there you were, walking into the Jedi Temple with your father and a few guards on each side of you.

He was breathless, standing on one of the balconies as Snips talked his ear off.

"Ooo, who's that? She's pretty." She interrupts herself mid sentence, leaning against the railing and looks down at you.

"Yeah-I...I don't know." Anakin fumbled. "Let's go back to training."

"Whatever, you're so annoying." She rolls her eyes.

The next few hours are a blur-he was preoccupied but constantly thinking of you. His mind was a mess and he ended his lightsaber technique session with Ahsoka early.

The poor boy sat down in one of the many benches that filled the halls and leaned his head back against the cool tile walls. He takes a deep breath and relaxes further as the sun illuminates his face.

Seconds later, his peace is interrupted by a door opening and slamming shut. He cracks his eyes open, wincing slightly as they adjust to the sun.

His breath catches and he sits up straight because you come out the seemingly occupied room. His eyes widen in awe but you don't seem to notice him, not at first.

Just a few seconds later your eyes meet and he stands up before he could even think.

"Ani?" You whisper-shouted. "My goodness!" You smiled.

"Y/n.." He mumbled, smiling softly himself. "I missed you..."

The minute he's close to you, you hug him tight, burying your head in his shoulder as you practically knock the air out of his lungs.

"My, my..." He chuckles, hugging you back with a little less intensity, afraid he'll hurt you. "What're you here for?" He pulls away, keeping his shaky hands on your upper arms.

"My dad was called for some negotiations and decided to bring me along. Perfect opportunity to look at houses." You shrugged.

His eyebrows furrowed. "Sorry, houses?"

"We're probably gonna move back." You shrug happily.

His mouth drops open before he smiles so brightly and happily. "You're joking." Anakin shook his head. This was the moment he didn't even want to imagine in fear of waking up disappointed because it's not real.

"I'm serious!" You nudge him playfully. "I have to go now, but feel free to come by the guest rooms tonight if you wanna catch up."

And just like that you were pulling away like you did all those years ago, hurriedly walking off to wherever you were going.

"May the force be with you!" He called out to you.

"May the force be with you too!"

Anakin stood there stunned for a good minute before deciding to go back to his room and finish what he had left to do, all while grinning to himself like an idiot.

Each minute that passed until he could see you again felt like a minute closer to his prayers being answered. And in some ways, they were.

Because 4 hours after first seeing you, Anakin was kissing his way down your body. His hands grope your tits as he trails further south, kissing under your chest, your stomach, your hip and finally latching his mouth onto your center.

His hands find their way to your hips to keep you in place.

Slowly, he licks all the way up, nose is rubbing against your clit. Your hands immediately reach for his hair, gently wrapping your fingers around the soft curls.

"Anakin-" You breathe out, back arching. He gently lifts your thighs and carefully places them over his strong shoulders.

"Mmm..." He hums against you "You're doing so good baby..." He mumbles, the sound muffled.

Your hands tighten, pulling his hair in desperation for more.

"My favorite Senator.." He teased, chuckling against you and making you squirm.

"Ani.." You whined, pulling his head closer despite your protest seconds prior.

His hands are doing a great job at stimulating you further-rubbing your thighs and stomach. Gently, almost innocently, Anakin's thumb makes it's way to your clit-rubbing slow, yet firm circles in time with his tongue.

You squirm above him, walls clenching around his tongue. "A-ani..gonna cum.." You rasp out.

"Mhm.." He encouragess, tone pleased and pace not faltering for a second.

A moment later, your inner thighs are squeezing his head as you whimper repeatedly and desperately, coming undone on his tongue.

Anakin takes his sweet time in prolonging your pleasure, lazily suckling and kissing on you without a care in the world. And when he does pull away, he wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. Then, he throws himself on top of you and kisses you sensless before falling asleep cuddled up on your chest

A/N: May the fourth be with everyone reading this!!! I’ve decided to take a break until June first because i REALLY need to lock in and study I have a bazillion tests coming up😭😭. I’ll try my best to make time and post at least a few works but no promises.

As for when I do get back, I have a new series coming up..👀

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (2) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You tried baking cookies for your boyfriend, but instead of a sweet surprise, your apartment quickly filled with smoke. The window you'd asked your boyfriend to fix weeks ago is still jammed shut, trapping the haze inside. Panicking, you rush across the hall and knock on your neighbor Michael’s door, hoping he can help.

Word Count: 3439

Warning: Age Gap (Mid 20s / Early 50s)

Author's Note: omg thank you for all the Across The Hall love. In no way I was expecting it to do numbers...The pressure is on now...yikes lol. More to come soon. (also happy teacher appreciation week!!!)- ryn

It had been a week or two since Michael saved your evening—and somehow, everything felt just a little different now.

The two of you had always exchanged the usual neighborly nods, the polite “hey” in the hallway or small talk here and there. But now, those brief moments have stretched into something more. Small talk in the elevator turned into real conversation—books, weekend plans, favorite takeout spots. More than once, you found yourselves lingering in the hallway long after reaching your doors, caught in easy banter that neither of you seemed in a rush to end.

Sometimes it happened in the lobby, a coffee in one hand, keys in the other, both of you half on your way somewhere—but never quite leaving. Other times it was on the front steps of the building, the evening airsoft, the streetlights humming above as you talked about everything and nothing. Conversations with Michael had a way of unfolding naturally, without effort or pressure, as if you’d known each other much longer than a few weeks.

There was a quiet comfort in it. A kind of attention he gave you that didn’t feel performative or polite—it just felt present. 

Sunday 7:10pm 

You were baking Aiden’s favorite cookies for tonight, hoping to lift his spirits. It had been a rough week for him at work—a particularly grueling case, the same one that made him cancel dinner just a week or two ago. You understood. That’s why you wanted everything to be perfect: soft centers, golden edges, just the way he liked them.

But something had gone terribly wrong.

Instead of comfort, you pulled ruin from the oven—cookies charred beyond recognition, blackened into something closer to charcoal than dessert. Smoke billowed out in thick, bitter clouds, curling through the kitchen as the acrid stench of burnt sugar and scorched flour filled the apartment.

Panicked, you’d tried the window—the window. The one Aiden had promised to get unjammed weeks ago. Still stuck. Of course.

The smoke detector began its shrill protest, echoing through your tiny space, refusing to be ignored. You waved at it with a dish towel, to no effect. The haze was thickening, your eyes stinging. With no other option, you rushed into the hallway and knocked on Michael’s door, your heart pounding hard enough to feel in your throat.

“Crap!” you muttered, glancing down at yourself in your embarrassingly loud pajamas.

Garfield. Everywhere. Orange, grumpy, judgmental Garfield.

You barely had time to regret your life choices before Michael opened his door halfway.

“Hi,” you said, breathless and flushed—partly from running to his door partly from mortification.

He took in the scene: you in your cartoon-themed PJ set, mismatched slippers, hair messily braided like you'd just rolled out of a nap you never intended to take.

“Uh—hey,” he replied, brow arching in amused curiosity. His gaze lingered a beat too long on the giant frowning cat across your chest. He opened his mouth—clearly about to say something, probably teasing—when a piercing beep cut him off.

Then another.

And another.

The unmistakable shriek of your smoke alarm.

Michael’s expression shifted. His eyes flicked past you, toward the open door of your apartment, where a gray haze curled into the hallway like a guilty secret. The acrid scent of burnt sugar and flour trailed after you like a cloud of shame.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his tone shifting, stepping forward slightly now.

You nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah—I mean, I’m fine. I was baking and I burned the cookies and now the alarm won’t stop—smoke everywhere—my window is jammed and I can’t get it open to air my apartment out and I thought maybe—”

You stopped, realizing you were rambling, words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. Your hands flailed uselessly in the air as if gesturing could somehow undo the disaster or explain why you were standing in a hallway dressed like a sleep-deprived cartoon enthusiast in crisis.

Then he nodded. “Right. Okay.” 

You stepped aside as Michael brushed past, moving with calm purpose. Inside your apartment, the smoke was thicker than you realized—your eyes watered, and your throat caught with the stale bitterness of it.

Michael went over to your large window. 

“My boyfriend was supposed to unjam it for me a while ago,” you muttered, coughing slightly, unable to stop yourself from adding, “Guess he forgot.”

“Forgot, huh?” he said lightly. Sounds like a guy with a questionable sense of priorities, he thinks to himself. 

Michael noticed the fire escape outside, and his irritation toward your boyfriend grew with each passing second. The window was jammed shut. The fire escape, a possible lifeline, was completely inaccessible because of your boyfriend’s inaction. He should have unjammed the window when you asked, he thought, frustration building. What if there had been a real fire? What if your only escape route had been blocked because of his laziness? His jaw tightened, the nagging feeling that your boyfriend’s indifference could have put you in serious danger gnawing at him.

He didn’t say anything, but his gaze flickered to the fire escape for a moment longer than necessary. You were so close to something more than just inconvenience. You were this close to something much worse—and your boyfriend, the person you trusted most, hadn’t taken the problem seriously enough.

Shaking off the thought, he focused on the task in front of him. His brow furrowed in concentration, his hands steady and efficient as he worked at the stubborn window. His fingers gripped the edge, testing it, giving it a few sharp tugs. The frame creaked but didn’t move.

It wouldn’t budge. Michael rolled up his sleeves. 

Frustration flared again, but Michael swallowed it down. He was glad he was home. Glad he was here. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like fixing the window was more than just a neighborly favor. He didn’t want to think about that right now.

You couldn’t help but notice the way his biceps flexed, the muscles in his forearms tightening with each practiced movement. There was something almost hypnotic about the way his hands worked—fluid, precise, like he’d done this a hundred times before. You quickly shook the thoughts away. And Michael was just your neighbor, a person you were slowly becoming friends with. 

Still, you weren’t blind. You could appreciate a handsome man when he was right in front of you—sleeves rolled up, fixing your window like it was the easiest thing in the world. There was an effortless competence to him, the kind that made it hard not to watch, even harder not to wonder.

The screech of the wood under his hands broke through his thoughts, and he pushed harder, silently willing the frame to give. He had no interest in playing the hero; he just didn’t want you to be at risk.

There was a soft click as the window finally loosened, the frame shifting ever so slightly. Michael exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and with a final, firm push, the window gave way. It slid open with a satisfying whoosh, the cool air rushing in, sweeping the smoke from the room in a way that almost felt like a small victory.

You let out a soft sigh of relief as the room slowly began to clear. For a moment, you both stood there, letting the fresh air fill the space. The heavy, burnt scent seemed to lift with the smoke, leaving behind only the faintest trace of disaster.

He dusted off his hands on his jeans.“There. Crisis averted.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice quieter now.

Michael gave you a quick, understanding glance, the tension in his shoulders easing now that the window finally slid open. “You’re welcome. Just…” He paused, eyes searching yours, his voice quieter now. “Be careful, okay? Don’t wait on him next time. If something’s broken, get it fixed.”

Then, with a quiet conviction that left no room for doubt, he added, “Or come find me. I’ll help you deal with it.”

There was a weight to his words, simple but solid—like a promise he meant to keep.

You blinked, processing his words, but the tone behind them hit you harder than you expected. “I will,” 

Michael’s eyes softened slightly, as though he could tell that wasn’t the only thing weighing on your mind. He took a small step back, nodding like he’d done his part as if that was enough. Then his eyes caught yours, held them. For a moment, neither of you moved. Something lingered in the silence—not tension, exactly, but something close to it.

You realized you were still staring.

He noticed too.

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the oven. “I’m usually not this much of a walking disaster.”

Michael gave a small laugh, just the corner of his mouth curling. “I don’t know. Garfield pajamas, scorched cookies, a smoke-filled apartment—it’s a strong aesthetic. Bold.”

You groaned, half-laughing. “I can’t even bake cookies without almost burning down my apartment.”

He chuckled again, the sound warm and easy, grounding. “Well, at least you didn’t burn down the whole apartment. That’s a win in my book.”

You gave a half-hearted laugh, your eyes drifting toward the still-hazy kitchen. The smell of burnt sugar clung stubbornly to the air, like a reminder you couldn’t quite scrub away. “Yeah,” you murmured, “I guess I’ve got that goin’ for me.”

Your gaze landed on the tray of blackened cookies still sitting on the stove—charred little offerings to a plan gone sideways. You groaned. “The cookies were supposed to be for Aiden. My boyfriend.”

Michael’s smile faltered—just briefly. It was subtle: the slight shift in his eyes, the faint tightening of his jaw. You didn’t notice.

“For Aiden,” he repeated, voice careful, neutral. It was the first time he’d heard the name.

Michael hadn’t officially met your boyfriend, but he already didn’t like him. Not after stepping in to salvage your evening when Aiden bailed, and certainly not now—knowing Aiden had left your window jammed, turning what should’ve been a harmless mishap into a real safety hazard. Still, Michael kept his growing dislike of your boyfriend to himself.

You nodded, a new flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “He’s coming by tonight. I thought if I made something sweet, it might... I don’t know. Lighten things up a little. He’s been really stressed lately—he’s a lawyer, working this huge case.” You trailed off, unsure whether to explain more, unsure whether you wanted to.

Michael didn’t push. Instead, he stepped closer to the stove, tilting his head slightly as he regarded the tray like it was some abstract piece of modern art.

After a moment, he glanced back at you with a crooked smile. “Well,” he said, “you tried. That counts for something.”

You let out a soft laugh, dragging a hand down your face. “Yeah. Tried and failed spectacularly.”

“I just wanted to do something kind… I should’ve just bought cookies. Way less risk involved. Now I’ve got a kitchen that smells like smoke and a tray of cookies that could probably be used as a weapon.”

Without missing a beat, Michael walked over to the stove and picked up one of the blackened cookies between two fingers. He let out a low whistle, examining it like an artifact.

Then, with mock solemnity, he banged it against the edge of the tray.

A loud clack echoed through the room.

“Oh yeah,” he said, brow furrowed in theatrical seriousness, “this could take someone down flat. Definitely not FDA approved.”

You burst out laughing—real, full laughter that caught you off guard. It rang out in the smoky air, cutting through the heaviness that had settled in your chest. For a moment, everything felt lighter.

Michael smiled, small and satisfied, like he’d achieved exactly what he’d intended. He liked your laugh—unfiltered, unguarded, genuine.

Without a word, he turned and began dumping the ruined cookies into the trash. He slid the tray into the sink and ran a thin stream of water over the scorched metal, his movements fluid and easy, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Like he’d done it here.

Like he belonged.

You watched him for a moment, the ease of his movements, the quiet competence. The way he didn’t try to make a big deal of helping—but didn’t hesitate, either.

“I promise I don’t usually invite people over just to make them throw out my failures,” you said, smiling, the lightness of the moment creeping in despite the earlier chaos.

Michael chuckled softly, wiping his hands on a towel before leaning back against the counter, his posture easy. “Good,” he said, his voice warm, “because I only throw out cookies for people I like.”

The words hung in the air for a beat—just long enough for the weight of them to settle, but not enough to make the moment feel heavy. He looked at you then, his expression not quite teasing, not quite serious. "Besides," he added, a playful glint in his eyes, "they weren’t a failure. They were… experimental."

His arms crossed, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “So. What kind of cookies were these supposed to be? Just so I know what I almost died for.”

You rolled your eyes, the humor lightening your mood. “Chocolate chip. Or… supposed to be.”

Michael nodded solemnly, clearly indulging in the joke. “A tragic loss.”

“Well…” he started, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “If you ever feel like baking again—with supervision—my oven works. And my windows open.”

The offer caught you by surprise, and you blinked, unsure how to respond. Michael pushed off from leaning on the counter, his posture relaxed but still carrying that same easy confidence.

“You’re offering to chaperone my cookie redemption arc?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smiled, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “Strictly for safety reasons. You know, some of these kitchen appliances could be dangerous without proper supervision.”

You couldn't help but grin at his playful tone. "Well, in that case," you said, trying to keep the mood light, "I’ll take you up on it. Couldn’t hurt to have a backup plan for next time. But just so you know, if we’re going the safety route, I’m going to need you in full protective gear—apron, oven mitts, maybe even goggles."

Michael chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter. “I’m ready. Just let me know when you want to give it another shot. I’ll bring the fire extinguisher, too, just in case.”

"Deal," you said with a nod, feeling something warm and easy settle between you two. "Next time, we’ll aim for cookies that aren’t hazardous to public health."

"Looking forward to it," he said, his smile softening, like he genuinely meant it.

And as he turned to head toward the door, his hand lingered on the doorframe for a moment, resting there like he was holding onto something, before he looked back at you one last time. A nod, a small smile, and then he was gone, retreating to his side of the hall without another word. The door clicked shut behind him

The room seemed just a little brighter, the air a little clearer, like the chaos had been swept away by the easy camaraderie. The weight of the evening shifted, and for the first time, you weren’t thinking about the burnt cookies or the mess you’d made—you were just looking forward to the next time you’d share a laugh with Michael.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d get those cookies right.

—-

You stood there for a moment, surrounded by the fading smoke and the lingering scent of burnt cookies, staring out the now-open window. The air was cooler, fresher, but something still felt heavy inside you—like the weight of all the things you’d left unsaid.

Then, a knock.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t hurried. Just… there.

You already knew who it was.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel and opened the door.

Aiden stood there, phone in hand, earbuds still in place, barely looking up as he gave you a quick, distracted peck on the lips. “Hey. Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled, already starting to step past you.

“I made cookies,” you said, gesturing vaguely behind you, your tone lighter than you felt. “Well… tried to.”

He sniffed the air, finally looking up, his expression flat. “Smells like you burned them.”

You nodded once, your face giving nothing away. “Yeah. Window was jammed. Whole place is filled with smoke.”

Aiden frowned, stepping further into the apartment without asking, moving through your space with that casual confidence he always had. Like nothing had happened. Like the last few weeks hadn’t been filled with moments you’d asked him for help—moments he hadn’t shown up for.

He glanced into the trash, saw the tray of ruined cookies, and let out a soft, almost dismissive laugh. “Damn. These are toast.”

You didn’t bring up that they were supposed to be for him.

Your arms crossed slowly, more to steady yourself than anything else, but Aiden didn’t seem to notice the shift in the air, the distance that had been creeping in between you two for a while now.

“I asked you to fix the window three weeks ago,” you said quietly, your voice cool now. The words weren’t angry—just resigned.

Aiden looked back at you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “I said I’d get to it. You know how busy work’s been.”

You nodded once, your gaze steady and a little too composed. “Right.”

He didn’t catch the edge in your voice, the small but significant change. He never did.

He glanced at the open window, then back at you with a lazy shrug. “I see you managed to get it open, so problem solved, right?”

You didn’t bring up Michael. Didn’t mention how he had been the one to help you fix it, to clear the smoke, to make sure you were okay.

No, you just stood there, arms crossed, and tried not to feel like a stranger in your own space.

The silence stretched between you.

Aiden, oblivious to the tension in the air, tossed his jacket onto the couch with a carefree grunt, already making his way to the TV. He didn’t even ask if you wanted to watch anything, or if you were still upset about the window, or even the cookies that had failed so spectacularly.

He just pulled out his phone again, scrolling through it while his fingers idly pressed buttons on the remote. The quiet hum of the television started up, filling the space between you, but not really bridging anything.

You stood there, watching him settle into the couch, his legs stretching out comfortably like he owned the place—like everything was still exactly how it had been, no changes, no questions.

Your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than usual, noting the small, absent-minded way he took up space. How he could just slip in and out of your life with that same half-attached, half-carefree attitude that used to feel like freedom but now felt like something else. Something far less generous.

"Want to watch this?" he asked, his voice light, already glancing at you from over the rim of his phone. The question was almost an afterthought, like an extension of the routine, as if nothing was out of place. As if you hadn't just stood there in silence, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you.

You didn’t answer right away, just letting the question hang in the air. The light flickered from the TV screen, casting a dull glow over the room that seemed to only accentuate the distance between you two. Finally, you sighed softly, letting your arms drop to your sides. Maybe the moment had passed. Maybe this was just what it had become.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, almost too quietly. "Sure." You walked over and sat beside him on the couch, not really focusing on the TV, but on the way the space felt different now. On the way you had to settle yourself into the silence. A silence that didn’t feel comfortable anymore. Not like it used to.

Aiden didn’t notice. He never did.

The silence between you wasn’t just the absence of words. It was the absence of anything that felt like it mattered.

He got lost in whatever was on the screen, and you were just sitting there, staring at the flickering images that blurred together, wondering if you could still pretend it was all fine.

tag: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor

Across The Hall (1) (2)

[staytinyzen]

Structural Testing

San x afab f!reader, plus-size/chubby!reader

friends to lovers, smut

MDNI, nsfw content ahead : oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex, slight size kink ig?, riding, petname: baby

wc: ~3,2k

San shows up at your door just after 10pm, wearing that cocky half-smile that always means trouble.

“Hey,” he says, stepping inside like he owns the place. 

“Hi ?”

You arch a brow, tugging your oversized tee lower over your thighs. Even though he’s barged into your place like this more times than you can count, it still throws you off, especially on a Friday night, when he’s usually out with his group of friends. Which, of course, explains your glaring lack of pants and bra.

You close the door behind him with a thud. “Why aren’t you out? Don’t you usually spend Friday nights pretending you hate karaoke while singing your heart out to girl group songs?”

He shrugs, heading toward your couch like it’s his own too. “Took the night off. Needed a change of scenery.”

You squint at him, following him. “So you picked my place? Lucky me.”

He grins. “Don’t act like you’re not excited to see me.”

You scoff, “That depends. Are you here because you blew something up again?”

“Not this time, but can you help me with something?”

"This better not be about another one of your insane ramen recipes that had us on the toilet for hours. Or one of your genius ideas trying to make a sofa out of pool noodles."

He shrugs. “I mean… it’s an engineering project. If we can call it that.”

You snort, already suspicious. But you’re bored, and his stupid ideas are at least entertaining and clearly, you have nothing better to do.

"What's the plan this time, Bob the Builder? What do you need?”

“I need you to help me test the structure of my project.”

You frown. “How?”

“You just have to sit on it.”

You blink. “What, like, just sit? That’s it?”

“Yeah, I have to make sure it can handle a specific weight class.” He says it casually.

You cross your arms slowly. “Weight class.”

He clears his throat. “You know. Pressure. Load-bearing support.”

Your expression tightens, your voice a little flat. “So you want me to sit on your little model because I’m heavy?”

“No! I mean yes—I mean no, not like that! You’re just—you're curvy. Perfectly curvy. I need to see how it holds up under... real-world conditions.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are this close to getting kicked in the balls. Plus can’t you just ask one of your jacked friends? They’re probably as heavy as me.”

He laughs, too quick, too guilty. “No, I don’t want them. I want you to do it.”

He looks you up and down, just briefly, but not subtly. That gaze skims over your bare thighs and lingers a second too long. You feel it like static on your skin.

You roll your eyes and stare at him, “And if I don’t want to?”

Then you start walking to your room, thinking maybe putting on some more clothes wouldn’t be the worst idea. You don’t say anything, but you know he’s watching, you can feel it.

Behind you, you hear the couch creak as he gets up. “Wait! Where are you going?”

You don’t answer. Just keep walking. You step into your room, head straight for the closet.

Then you feel his hand, warm and familiar, settling on your hip. He leans in close, voice low and cocky at your ear.

“Come on, baby. Help me out. Just sit on it. For science.”

Against your better judgment, and maybe because the way he says “baby” makes your thighs clench, you turn around huffing and staring at him. “So where is your little project?”

“Right in front of you, actually,” he grins.

You glare. “What the hell are you talking about?”

His grin shifts, slow, wicked. He steps closer, closing the space between you, and leans down. His voice drops, low and husky, the kind that slides right down your spine.

“The project…” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “…is my face.”

You freeze.

His hands brush over your hips with slow, deliberate pressure. “I need to know if I can take the weight. If I can breathe under it. If I can make you come apart while sitting on my tongue.”

Heat slams through you so fast it makes your head spin.

“San,” you hiss, but it comes out more breathless than scolding.

He tilts his head, lips ghosting your ear. “So? Are you gonna help me with my project… or leave it untested?”

"You're not serious." You whisper trying to look him in the eyes.

"I'm very serious," he says, voice deep and calm. "This is for research."

"Research," you echo flatly.

He nods. "Thorough, physical, real-time data collection. Hands-on testing. Mouth-on, if we're being technical." He doesn't laugh. He just looks at you with that same calm, unwavering expression that somehow makes your knees feel unsteady.

"I’m dead serious," he repeats, voice low and steady. "'Been thinking about it for a while."

You snort, half deflection, half disbelief. "Right. Okay. And out of all the girls you could think about, you landed on me?"

He frowns slightly, head tilting like he can't understand why you're questioning it. "Yeah. You."

"San." You shift your weight, eyes narrowing. "I'm not exactly your type."

His gaze sharpens, "What the hell does that mean?"

You shrug, suddenly finding the floor very interesting. "You know what it means.”

He exhales sharply like you've said something ridiculous. "You really don't get it, do you?" You look up, startled by the edge in his voice.

"I want you," he says, each word deliberate, like he needs you to understand. "Not because I don’t have anyone else. Not because it’s convenient. Not because I'm bored. Because you're–" He falters for a second, "Because you're sexy. Because the way you move drives me crazy. Because I've imagined this more times than I'll admit."

Your lips part, breath caught in your throat. He leans in, his breath hot against your neck. "I know what I'm asking. I know exactly what I want. The question is..." His voice dips, husky. "Are you gonna let me show you how much?"

Your face is burning. "You actually want me to...?"

"I do," he says, eyes dark and steady. "I've been thinking about it. Dreaming about it, actually. You, on my face. All that gorgeous weight pressing down. You grinding on my tongue like you own me."

Your knees go weak, and you hate that he sees it. He smirks, but it's not the usual smugness. There's heat in it. Hunger. "Don't look at me like I'm crazy, baby. I want you. All of you. Every inch. Every curve."

Your heart thumps against your ribs. You cross your arms, uncertain. "You're just saying that because l'm-"

"Hot as fuck?" he interrupts.

“I want you. I want your thighs to suffocate me. Hips that could crush my jaw. I want to feel the weight of you losing control on top of me."

You swallow hard. His eyes flicker to your lips.

"I want to be smothered in your heat. I want to taste how worked up I make you. And I want you to use me for it."

He drops to his knees, eyes never leaving yours, and reaches for you, warm hands gliding up the backs of your thighs. "Let me show you. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But if you want to..." he breathes in. 

"I’ll worship you."

Your pulse pounds. Every nerve ending is screaming yes, even if your brain hasn't caught up yet.

You exhale shakily. "You better not be messing with me."

He kisses the inside of your thigh, and whispers, "Mess with you? Baby, I want to wreck you."

His fingers gently tugging at the elastic of your panties, his eyes bore into yours, "Can I?" He whispers.

You nod, your breath catching in your throat as you anticipate his next move.

“Use your words baby.” He smirks, his fingers stilling their ministrations as he waits for you to speak.

"Please," you manage to choke out between breaths, your body already trembling under his touch.

He grins, his eyes locked on yours as he whispers, "Please what, baby?". His finger tracing circles on your thigh as he waits patiently for you to speak.

"Use your words baby," he repeats, his voice low and sensual. "Tell me what you want."

You take a deep breath, “You” you manage to say your voice trembling, “I want you”.

He finally pulls your panties down gently and moves up your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire on your skin as he makes his way up your thighs. He takes his time, savoring every inch of you as he moves higher and higher. His hands tracing gentle patterns on your hips, he whispers, "You're so beautiful," his voice low and rough. He looks up at you, his eyes roaming over your body appreciatively before his lips find your hip. He kisses first then bites gently, his teeth scraping against your sensitive skin. He smirks as he feels you shiver, his fingers still tracing patterns on your hips.

"So responsive," he murmurs. "I love how you react to my touch."

Then he gets up and lies on your bed, "Come on. Sit. I told you I need to test the load-bearing capabilities of my face."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm desperate," he counters.

You start walking slowly towards him and he pulls you to bed so you straddle him carefully, knees on either side of his head, hovering just above his mouth. San looks up at you like you're a fucking goddess. "Come on," he murmurs, voice gravel thick. "Sit. Let me feel you."

You hesitate a beat longer, then lower yourself onto him. His hands grip your ass, pulling you down against his mouth,

“I'll crush you" you say, worried.

"Promise?" he grins. His breath fans against your core and your hips jerk at the sensation. The second your heat meets his mouth, everything else disappears. Every worry, every second guessing. His tongue parts you, slow and sure, and he groans. You gasp, instinctively grabbing a fistful of his hair as his tongue drags up your slit and circles your clit, deliberate and focused. You rock your hips, and he moans underneath you, gripping your thighs and pulling you down harder, his tongue reaching deeper.

"Fuck, San," you breathe, voice trembling.

He pulls back for a split second just enough to say, "That's it, baby. Use me. Ride it."

You move against his mouth, chasing the pleasure, grinding slow and deep, bracing yourself on your bed’s headboard as his tongue drags slow, wet circles over your clit, then dips down, teasing your entrance before coming back up to suck hard. Your thighs tremble, but his grip holds you steady, firm, worshipful. You continue rolling your hips, chasing the pressure, the friction, and San’s tongue flicking harder, faster, until your moans turn desperate, broken.

"I'm—fuck—I'm gonna—"

He growls against your clit and you shatter, thighs trembling, cry catching in your throat as you come on his face. You don't even realize you're still grinding against him until he starts licking you through it, chasing every aftershock like he can't stop.

Finally, you collapse forward, chest heaving.

The afterglow is still clinging to your skin like sweat when you manage to crawl off of San entirely and flop beside him, both a mess and breathing hard. He looks wrecked. Wet mouth, flushed skin, eyes glassy and dazed.

"Holy shit," you breathe.

San just grins, voice ragged. "Still think I was joking?"

You’re still trying to catch your breath when— "Ready for the next testing phase?" he murmurs.

You blink, still a little wrecked. "Excuse me?" He props himself up on an elbow, that familiar troublemaker glint back in his eyes. "Next project has to do with... vertical load capacity."

You snort. "You're making this up."

"I'm adapting," he says, crawling on top of you with that stupidly hot, slow-motion roll of his hips. "We've established my face is fully weight-bearing. Now I need to check if my back and thighs can handle... a sustained, rhythmic load."

Your legs instinctively tighten around his waist. "You mean you want me to ride you."

"I want you to use me," he says, breath ghosting across your lips. "To see how long I can last. How deep you can take it. How hard you can work me."

He presses his hips forward just enough to make you feel that he's very ready for that kind of testing. Your brain short-circuits as you hold back a moan. "You're insane."

He kisses your neck. "I'm inspired."

He gets off of you and stands next to your bed and starts taking off his tank top, sweatpants, and boxer, and—fuck, he's hard and already leaking for you. "Geez," you mutter, not even hiding the way your thighs clench. "You were this worked up the whole time?"

He grins through gritted teeth. "Baby, you sat on my face. Of course, I was."

Then he sits against your headboard and pats his thighs “Come on baby and take that shirt off”.

You do as he says and crawl to him to straddle him, his hands splay wide on your hips, thumbs stroking your skin. "You comfortable?"

"Not yet," you whisper, and shift your hips, accidentally brushing over his dick, he shudders and groans.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, baby more than okay, go on” he whispers.

You line him up, still slick from his mouth, and he sucks in a sharp breath as the head of his cock catches at your entrance. You pause...

He looks up at you with dark, reverent eyes. "Go on."

You sink down slowly, inch by inch, feeling every stretch, every throb, every beautiful ache as he fills you. His head drops back, a guttural moan escaping his throat.

"Fucking hell," he groans. "You feel like a dream."

You start to move slowly at first, just rocking your hips, letting yourself adjust but San's grip tightens like he's trying not to thrust up into you like an animal. He looks up, flushed, sweat beading at his hairline. "You're so tight. So warm. I—shit, I'm trying to last, but you're squeezing me like—" You roll your hips hard and he gasps.

"Fuck! Okay okay. New test parameters: don't make me come in sixty seconds."

You smirk. "That doesn’t sound very engineering of you."

He laughs through a groan. "You're evil, goddess-level evil. And hot as fuck"

You start riding him slow but deep, each thrust pressing him all the way inside you. The angle, the tension, and the way he keeps praising you through clenched teeth all build too fast.

"You're doing so good," he pants, hands sliding up to your waist, your ribs, your breasts. "God, I love your body. I love how you feel. I love the way you ride."

You brace yourself against his shoulders and pick up the pace, bouncing on him now. His head tilts back, eyes rolling as he groans your name.

"Look at you," he moans. "Taking everything. Using me. Fuck—ruining me."

He's close. You're close. He wraps his arms around you and thrusts up into you once, hard, hitting that perfect spot, and you cry out, unraveling around him. You clench so hard he swears, biting into your shoulder as he spills into you with a groan. You collapse against him, panting, his arms holding you tight like you might disappear. After a long pause, “Projects structurally compromised by very sexy goddess," he murmurs against your neck and starts petting your hair.

You snort. “You and your crazy projects…”

“They’re driving you crazy huh?”

…

You're still curled on top of him minutes later, skin sticking slightly where sweat meets skin, but neither of you moves. San's heartbeat is still fast beneath your ear, his hands lazily stroking your back 

"So," you mumble, eyes half-lidded, "what's your next fake engineering project?"

He hums. "Hm... Might do a deep dive into internal structural flexing. See how your body adjusts to different speeds, angles, and pressures." You groan into his chest. "That's not engineering. That's porn."

He grins. "Always was, call me a creative consultant for adult infrastructure."

You swat him lightly, but he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles.

Then, softer "No, seriously... I want to test every part of you. Every reaction. Every sound. Every place that makes you melt."

You look up and find him watching you.

"I meant what I said earlier," he murmurs, voice a low rumble. "I love your body. Your curves. I love how you feel. And most importantly I love you.”

You bite your lip. Then open your mouth—

"I'm not just attracted to you, I crave you," he says, voice low but sure. "The softness of your thighs, the way your hips move when you're on top of me, it drives me insane. But it's more than that. It's the way you laugh when you're tired. The way you always know when something's off, even when I try to hide it. When you're with me, I feel seen, like I’m not just a man but your man. Being with you, it’s not just hot. It’s home.”

You blink fast, heart catching in your throat, not used to this kind of worship. "You're gonna make me cry," you whisper, voice shaky. Then, after a beat. "And not even in the hot way."

"I only want to make you cry in the hot way," he teases gently, brushing a thumb over your cheek. "That would be one of my projects too if you’d like."

You shake your head and hide your burning face in his neck. He chuckles, arms wrapping around you tighter.

"You okay?"

You nod. "Better than okay. I love you too”

He kisses you softly and gets up holding his hand out to you. “Let’s get us cleaned up now baby”

…

In the shower, while his fingers work gently through your hair, massaging in the shampoo, he leans down and murmurs, "What I said earlier about making you cry in a hot way... been thinking about that. Thoughts?"

You smirk, eyes still closed. "Oh, I mean... we can definitely try."

"Good," he says, his voice dropping. "Because I've been holding back."

Your eyes snap open, head tilting up toward him.

"You were holding back?"

"Oh yeah," he says, pure sin on his face. "You were still coherent. That's unacceptable."

You stare at him and he shrugs. "Next round, I want you drooling. Barely able to talk. Sobbing a little, maybe."

"San."

"I want to fuck you against a wall. On the kitchen counter. In the shower. Hell, on top of the washing machine during spin cycle, call it vibration analysis."

You laugh half turned on, half exasperated, and nudge him playfully under the stream of water.

"You're insane."

He grins and presses a kiss to your temple. "Only for you."

You finish rinsing off, the heat of the shower is nothing compared to the warmth between you. And later, clean and tangled in soft sheets, you fall asleep in his arms, still smiling, safe, fulfilled, and finally his.

a/n : that's so dumb but this is what inspired this fic plus this comment 🥴

+ the video says architecture project but I got so confused I was like isn’t it engineering so I went with it the whole fic but if that’s wrong I’ll change it I I’m just so confused and dumb

[munsonsmixtapes]

Take Your Time

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!virgin!reader

You and Simon go on your date and you're sure that you're falling for each other. Especially when you go back to his apartment.\

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) nipple play, fingering

You can’t take your eyes off your reflection in the mirror of the small dressing room. The lingerie set you’ve picked out compliments your skin beautifully. It’s a light blue color and the cups are made of a thin material, completely see through and you almost want to send Ghost-Simon-a photo to show him what he’s in for tonight. 

But you decide against it, wanting to see the look on his face when he undresses you. You want to see his eyes fill with lust as he takes in what you’re wearing, telling you how beautiful he thinks you are. You’ve been thinking about this moment for so long and even though you don’t know Simon that well, you don’t think you’d want anyone else taking your virginity. 

You change out of the lingerie and purchase it, buzzing with excitement as you think about how he’s going to react. You’re sure that this along with the dress you’ve picked out are going to be a lethal combo. For once, you’re going to approach the uncertainty with confidence. The old you would be so nervous that you’d find an excuse not to go. But the new you-the you that took over after that first call with Simon is really looking forward to tonight.

Simon is nervous as shit. He’s changed his shirt at least three times and when he hasn’t been fussing over what he’s wearing, he’s gone back and forth trying to fix his hair as well as reading your reply to his text over and over because he just can’t believe that you said yes. 

Can’t wait to see you! 

He thought he blew it when he didn’t answer your call but it seemed like that begging really did the trick. And he was happy to do it. He feels silly because he doesn’t even know you, but he’s already sure that he’s falling for you. You’ve been texting all day and he’s been having a great time. Texting is easy. Texting is safe. And Simon likes things that are safe. 

Doing this, going out with you, is so unlike him. He’d never do something like this on a whim, but he feels like he has to see you. He has to get to know you beyond the phone calls. He wants to see you, to know what the sweet girl who has been taking up his mind looks like. He wants to pick your brain, to know every single thing about you.

You’re walking out the door as you’re texting Simon that you’re on the way. You’re biting back a smile as you put your phone into your purse as you head to the elevator, pressing the button with the down arrow. You still can’t believe that you’re doing this and you almost want to laugh at the fact that this is probably the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to you.

Your phone rings in your purse and you pull it out to see that Simon is calling. You immediately answer, putting the phone to your ear as the elevator doors close, pressing the button that will take you to the lobby. 

“Hey, handsome,” you answer and Simon is biting back his own smile as he exits his apartment, heading to the elevator. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he replies as he presses the button that’s beside the elevator and your heart melts at the nickname yet again. “I’m just leaving but I-I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You’re about to see me,” you reply with a laugh as you hear a ding in the background and you assume that he’s getting in an elevator too. As the door opens, there’s a very handsome man waiting there-probably the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

He steps into the elevator and when he speaks, your eyes widen as you realize that you’re hearing his words on the other line. You both hang up as he gets into the elevator, grinning at each other as the doors close. He’s somehow even more handsome than you imagined. He’s wearing a tight black button up shirt with the sleeve rolled up to his elbows and you let your eyes take in the tattoo on his left arm. 

He’s got the prettiest brown eyes and blonde hair that’s the perfect length for you to run your hands through. He steps closer and you don’t miss how he’s checking you out, his arms raising at an awkward angle, like he wants to reach out and touch you but he’s afraid to do so. 

“Are you wanting to hug me?” You ask with a laugh and he nods. 

“Yeah,” he replies, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly. “I-is that okay?” 

“Simon.” You’re laughing harder and he loves hearing it in person. It’s easily becoming his favorite sound-well besides your moans. “We’re on a date. Of course you can hug me.” 

So he does. He pulls you into his arms, his hands pressing against your back as he gives your body a squeeze. Having you there just feels so right that he almost doesn’t want to let you go. Your head is pressed to just the right spot of his chest and he’s hoping that you can’t hear how loudly his heart is beating. 

“Do I make you nervous?” You tease as you pull away and his cheeks turn a bright pink. He has no idea where this confidence is coming from but he loves seeing this side of you. That he’s the reason why you’re behaving this way. 

“You make me nervous too,” you reply and he feels a little relieved. “See? Feel.” You take his hand and put it against your chest, your eyes locking in his and he gulps as his skin makes contact with yours. You’re right, your heart is beating fast, but that’s not what he’s focusing on. 

The way his hand is pressed against your chest, he can’t help but want to dip his hand into your dress because god does he want to see more of that blue lace that’s peeking out because his hand pushed it down. 

He wants to unzip your dress and see what you’re hiding underneath it. He wants to see your hard nipples and your cunt that he wants to be dripping for him. God, he doesn’t even want to go to dinner now. He just wants to skip straight to dessert. 

The elevator door opens and Simon is snapped out of his filthy fantasy. Especially when you remove his hand from your chest and hold it in yours, your fingers threading through his. You pull him along and he’s happy to follow. He doesn’t know where you’re going because you’re sure as hell not driving. Since you’re coming from the same place, he thinks it’d be silly for you to drive separately. Besides, he likes the idea of you sitting prettily in his passenger seat with his hand on your thigh. 

So he pulls you over to his truck, helping you into it like the gentleman he is and once he’s in the driver’s seat, he has to steal one more glance at you, the beautiful woman who he can’t believe is giving him a shot. 

“Here,” he says, handing you a cord that’s plugged in in front of the cup holders that are between the two of you. “Play whatever you want.”

“Are you sure? That’s giving me a lot of power.”

“I’m pretty sure I’d give you whatever you’d ask for. All you’d have to do is bat those pretty eyes.” It’s your turn to blush now, your cheeks heating at his words. 

“God, you always know exactly what to say to make me an absolute mess, don’t you?” You cover your face with your hands and Simon can’t stop smiling at you, at how adorable you are.

“Sweetheart, that’s quite literally my job. But these aren’t just lines. I genuinely mean it, name it and it’s yours.”

“So if I wanted your truck-” you can’t even finish the sentence because he’s pulling the keys from the ignition. 

“Done and done, baby, here are the keys,” he holds the keys out to you and when you study his face, you see that he’s serious. This man doesn’t even know you and he’s willing to give you whatever you ask for while other men that you’ve actually dated couldn’t even bother to text you back. He’s unlike any other man you’ve ever met and you hate that you’re already starting to fall for him.

His hand takes yours as he cranks the truck again and pulls out of his parking spot before heading down the street. You talk the entire time and Simon listens. He just loves hearing you talk so he’s going to let you do it as much as you want.

The music you pick is a pop artist-not his thing but he thinks it’ll grow him. It feels so strange having someone in his passenger seat. It’s always just him but he likes having company, especially since that company is you.

The ride is short but this is something you could definitely get used to. Simon isn’t man of many words, but you know he likes to listen to you talk, the way he smiles at what you’re saying even though it’s most definitely nonsense. You know he just likes hearing the sound of your voice.

The truck pulls up to the valet and that’s how you know that this is a nice place. You don’t think you’ve ever been anywhere that’s had valet parking. Simon helps you out of the passenger seat as he passes the keys off to one of the employees and as he rests a hand on the small of your back, you can’t help but notice how he’s showing you a whole other world. 

After he gives his name at the hostess stand, you’re led to what you assume is a private room that couldn’t have been easy to get. Now you’re wondering what exactly he does for a living because there’s no way that he makes this kind of money just by working for a phone sex hotline, right?

The door is closed, leaving the two of you alone and Simon is quick to pull your chair for you before sitting across from you. He’s sweating bullets but he’s trying to play it cool. You just look so pretty and you’re so sweet and he’s so scared that he’s going to blow this up before he even has a chance to thrive. 

He watches you open your menu and your eyes widen at all of the zeros next to the prices. Just a meal for you would be what you spend on your weekly groceries. Knowing that he’s willing to spend this amount of money on you almost makes you want to stick to water. 

“Don’t worry about the prices,” he whispers. “When you’re with me, I never want you to worry about money. I’ve got you.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? I’ve got all of this money and I’ve gotta spend it on someone. Why can’t it be you?”

“Why should it be me?” Simon just lets out a laugh and takes your hand that’s resting on the table before pressing a kiss to it. 

“Because I want it to be. Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since our first call and I think I might lose my mind if you walk out of my life tonight.” He’s serious. You can tell. This isn’t a line either. You can see it just by the way his brown eyes are boring into yours.

Your cheeks heat at his words and you have to cover your mouth with your hand because of the giggles that are spilling out of it. Never in your life has a man made you so giggly.  Simon kisses your hand again before resting your joined hands back on the table. He already knows what he’s going to order so he decides to watch you peruse the menu. 

He can’t keep his eyes off you, the smile permanently plastered to his face as he does so. He’s shameless about it too, staring at you like he’s falling in love with you or something. And he hates that he actually might be. It’s becoming increasingly harder not to. 

He has no idea that you feel the same way. That you so desperately want to be part of his life. To be the one person he wants to talk to after work. You want the two of you to talk about your days over dinner before doing dishes while playing music that’s too loud and he’ll eventually pull you into a dance, holding you in his arms as you sway to the beat.

You’d finish the night snuggling up on the couch and watching a movie that you’ve both seen a million times so you can talk through it, giving each other fun facts you’ve read about it and then go to bed and where you snuggle even more, exchanging I love yous between kisses and fits of giggles before you eventually fall asleep in each other’s arms and wake up in the morning and do it all again. 

The rest of dinner is spent over pleasant conversation and you both decide very early on that you have to do it again soon. You see a whole other side of Simon-the rich side. He ordered everything and as you watched him you were sure that he was speaking a whole other language because you didn’t understand any of it.

Everything is so easy with him. You’re never able to talk to other people this easily but there’s something about him that makes you feel like you can tell him anything. You feel like you can talk to him about any topic of your choosing and he wouldn’t judge you and would be able to add his own commentary. 

After dinner, he invites you over and you immediately agree. Tonight is the night, you can feel it. Why else would he be inviting you to his place? Well, even if that’s not what he’s wanting, you decide you’ll stay anyway. You just like his company so much that you can’t even imagine going home alone tonight. 

-

Simon opens the door to his apartment and holds the door open so you can step inside. The layout is the exact same as yours but this is decorated much nicer. You’re not exactly sure how much he makes, but it has to be a lot with all of the expensive furniture he’s got all over the place. Now what he said about giving you anything you ask for has taken a whole new meaning. You thought he was just trying to be romantic but now you’re sure that he was serious.

“So this is how the other half lives,” you sigh as you sit on the couch and Simon follows, placing himself next to you but gives you some space to be respectful. 

“So you like this? Spending time with me?”

“Simon, I was just wined and dined while being showered with compliments by the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Of course I like spending time with you. You’re sweet and it’s so obvious that you care a lot about the people in your life.” He does and god does he want you to be one of them.

He wants to be able to wake up next to you every morning and kiss you whenever he wants and tell you that he loves you any chance he gets. God, he thinks he’s in love with you and he doesn’t know how he can’t stop it. He doesn’t know that he can nor does he want to. He’s diving in head first and is trying not to think about how terrified he is. 

“I do,” he nods, scooting closer to you, taking your hands in his. “And if you’d like to, I’d want you to be a part of it. This has been one of the best nights of my life and I don’t know how I could go on spending another one without you.” 

Your eyes widen at his words, his own softening as his thumbs rub your knuckles gently. You can’t believe what he’s saying but your heart is melting. He’s saying everything you’ve been thinking tonight and you almost want to cry because for once in your life, you feel wanted. For once, you’re someone’s first choice. 

“I feel the exact same way,” you reply and before you can register what’s happening. Simon is taking your face in his hands and slotting his lips between yours. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up, but you kiss him back, giving him the same energy, the two of you pouring out your feelings for each other through the kiss. 

Simon pulls away before he can get ahead of himself and you’re both smiling like idiots, giggles spilling from your mouths like you’re a couple of high schoolers going on your first ever date. He wants to go in for more, but he can’t. He knows that kissing you will just make him want more and he’s trying to be a gentleman. He’s trying to take it slow because it’s what you deserve. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, licking his lips, making them look even more inviting than they were before. “Got ahead of myself.” But he can’t stop himself from staring at your lips, wanting to know what they taste like. He wants to know so badly but he really needs to reel it in. 

“Why are you sorry? You can kiss me, Simon. It’s okay.” You can see him battling himself and you hate how he’s treating you like you’re some fragile thing. He knows what you’re wearing underneath your dress so he’s got to know what you’re wanting to happen tonight, right? 

“I just-” he lets out a frustrated sigh and you feel so bad that he’s overthinking it. “I want this to be special for you. I want it to be nice and sweet and slow but I’m not sure I can be any of those things right now.” 

“What if I don't want you to?” Those words immediately turn his brain to mush and now he can’t seem to think about anything else. “What if I want you to rip this dress to shreds then fuck me so hard that I can’t walk for days?” You’ve barely gotten your sentence out before Simon is kissing you again and this time, he’s not being gentle. His tongue slides into your mouth and he feels his cock twitch when he hears you moan. God, it’s even better in person. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says against your lips as you begin to unbutton his shirt. 

“We should slow down,” you reply as his hands reach up and unzip your dress. He pushes it down your body and you stand up to let it fall to the floor. His mouth falls open and Simon is practically drooling as he catches sight of what you’re wearing underneath. He can see your hard nipples clear as day through the sheer fabric and now he’s hair as a rock, his dick so close to coming out of his jeans. 

“God, if I knew this was what you were hiding from me, we wouldn’t have even made it to the restaurant. Now get over here.” You do as he says and he helps you straddle his waist before bringing his lips to yours again. You go back to unbuttoning his shirt and he’s confused when you kiss his cheek, making your way down to his neck. And when you give it a suck, he knows that he’s absolutely done for. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” He asks, hating that he’s getting jealous again. 

“Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean that I don’t know things. I read, Simon.”

“Read what?” Now he wants to know where exactly you’ve learned how to give a hickey because he’s convinced that this is the best one he’s ever received. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply as you go in for a bite and Simon reaches up and digs his nails into your back, needing something to hold onto. “Just can’t handle the fact that you’re not in control, hm?” 

“Fuck,” he whines and you feel yourself getting wet at the sound. “No, baby, you can be in control all you want. Do whatever you’d like. I’m yours.” You continue to suck on his neck and try to go about it with confidence and when he moans again, you just know that you’re doing something right. 

You feel his hard cock pressing into you and you feel like you can get off on the fact that you’ve made this way. You rock your hips against him and the whine that falls from his lips make you feel a type of power you didn’t know was possible. 

Simon is a mess underneath you, eyes shut tight, fingers white knuckling the cushion underneath him because he doesn’t want to scratch up your back just yet. As enjoyable as this is, he can’t take it anymore. He’s gotta get inside you before he busts. So he picks you up and practically throws you onto the sofa as he places himself on top of you. He pulls a condom out of his wallet then sets both on the coffee table before he kisses you again.

This one is all teeth and tongue as he just wants to explore your mouth to taste every inch of it. He knows that he promised himself he would be a gentleman but how can he when you asked him to rip your clothes to shreds? That image alone makes him feel like an animal. 

His hands move up to your bra and he grabs hold of the thin band that rests between your breasts and gives it a hard tug, the thing opening pretty easily. You gasp at his actions, shocked that he actually took you up on it and now you don’t think you’ve ever been more turned on in your life. 

“I’ll buy you another one,” he says, his voice raspy as he stares down at your now bare chest. He reaches up and runs his hand along one of your very hard nipples. Your eyes are pleading but he thinks he wants to hear you beg this time. 

“Please,” you whisper and he immediately massages your nipple with the pad of his thumb as his lips find yours once again. You moan into his mouth and god, it sounds even better in person. You’re arching into him and he takes the opportunity to slide his other arm around you, pulling you even closer. 

“So pretty like this,” he says as he nips at your bottom lip. “I hope you know how honored I am to be in this position.” And he is. The fact that he’s the one who wants to take your virginity is the biggest honor he’s ever been given and he doesn’t take this lightly. “You ready for me, baby?” 

“Fuck yes.” He kisses you one more time before his hand that’s on your breast travels down to your panties. He’s about to rip them like he did with your bra but when he looks down, he sees that they're crotchless. 

“You naughty girl,” he chuckles as his fingers slide inside. His eyes on you as your flutter closed, mewling at the feeling. This is already far better than your own fingers and he hasn’t even done anything yet. He begins to pump them and you feel embarrassed that you feel like you’re already close. “Feels good, doesn’t it sweetheart?”

“Mmm,” is all that you’re able to respond with, your brain starting to feel like mush. You’re coming undone underneath and this is just his fingers. How are you going to be able to handle his cock? 

“Just stretching you out and then i’ll promise I’ll fuck you the way you want.” You’re already melting from his touch and now he thinks your ready for the real thing. He gives a few more fast pumps as you beg for his dick over and over then pulls his fingers out. Simon then reaches for the condom before taking off his pants and boxers and your eyes widen at the size of him, wondering how the hell he’s going to fit inside of you. 

He rolls on the condom once his shirt is off and places himself on top of you one more time. He takes his hands in yours and kisses them over and over as his eyes stare into yours. He could get used to this view and he doesn’t know what it is, but there’s this foreign feeling rising in his chest. And before he stops himself, the words are rolling off his tongue. 

“I think I love you,” he breathes and he fully expects you to run, but you stay, pulling one of your hands out of his to rest it on his cheek, your thumb moving back and forth across as you give him that smile he’s grown to love seeing tonight. 

“I think I love you too,” you reply and his cheeks turn pink as he lets out a giggle. He’s sure that this is the happiest he’s ever been in his life and you’re the one to thank for that. 

He kisses you once more as his cock slowly slides inside you, his hand reaching for yours again, your fingers intertwining as he pins your hands to the sofa. His thrusts are slow as you both get used to the feeling. You release your control to him, letting him do what he wants. And how can you not when he’s smiling down at you like that, telling you that he loves you?

You let yourself give in to your feelings, letting the sound slip from your lips, for once not caring about how you’re being. And Simon is eating it up, encouraging you with every step of the way. He’s being nothing but a gentleman, soft and sweet. You can tell he’s holding back, promising that he’ll do it however you want next time, but this time, he just wants to take it slow, to actually enjoy the two of you sharing this special moment. 

You’re bucking your hips against his, matching his pace and now he’s wondering where you learned that since he never taught that to you. He wonders if it has anything to do with those books you told him about. Now he’s got to see what they contain, hoping that maybe he can learn a few things as well.

“There’s my girl,” he says as he watches your orgasm approach. You’re screaming his name as he’s slowing, grinning down at you as hearing it gives him the biggest ego boost. He’s so proud of you and if you hadn’t told him, he would have never known you were a virgin. You’re a natural and he really hopes that you enjoyed it as much as he did. 

As you’re coming down, he scoops you up from the sofa and carries you to his bathroom where he cleans you up with a warm towel before taking you to his bedroom where he dresses you in one of his t-shirts. He gets his own self dressed then the two of you crawl into bed. 

You’re a changed woman and now you completely understand why there are couples that do it on the regular. You’ve done it just one time and you’re already addicted, wondering if he’d be willing to do it again even though you’re so tired and sore. 

“So round two?” You ask and Simon chuckles as he pulls you into his arms after turning off his lamp. 

“Ask me again in the morning,” he replies, already knowing that he’s going to give in. Anything you want, you get. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you reply as you snuggle further into his chest and Simon is positive that this is going to be the best sleep he’s ever had.

part one part two

taglist: @robinfeldt98 @courage-of-the-stars

[angeastrd]

. . . late night calls .ᐟ

natasha romanoff x fem! reader. fluff!

after a hard mission, all she wants to do is talk to her girlfriend

“Did I wake you up?” The hoarse voice of Natasha Romanoff is the first thing you hear in your bleary haze, as you blink, willing yourself to wake up. You stare at the unknown number on your screen – burner phone. She wasn’t supposed to communicate with you during missions.

“. . . Huh?” you mumble. Your eyes glance over to the clock; 2:14 A.M. glares back at you, as you focus back on the voice crackling through your phone. You shake your head, before seeming to remember that she can’t see you on the other side of the line. “No,” you correct, perhaps a little too delayed. “You didn’t wake me. Been up. For a while,” you lie. She snorts. She still didn’t understand why you tried to lie to her– she was a professional spy, for god's sake. She was always going to know. Still you liked to try. 

She doesn’t comment, instead admitting, “I needed to hear your voice.” She pauses. Was that too vulnerable? Sometimes Natasha worries that you may be in love with the Black Widow the world sees, and not the broken-down, morally gray Natasha Romanoff. She was a fragmented soul, and she dreaded the day that you would gain clarity of that and take your leave. Being with an Avenger already wasn’t easy work – hell, the title had at least a decade of trauma attached to it. It probably was in the contract. Being with the Black Widow? That was more trouble than she was worth.

“I missed you too,” you responded simply, and she was thankful that you were able to read in between the lines of what she was not brave enough to say. “I’m sorry for waking you up,” she starts, and before you can reassure her, she continues, words flowing now that she had begun, “I had to exterminate a target today. He was a HYDRA agent. He had a picture of his kids in his wallet,” she confesses, voice cracking as she tries to recompose herself. “You probably think I’m being ridiculous. Having more empathy for this random man than he had for everything I stand in,” she mutters. 

“I don’t think you’re ridiculous, Natasha. I’ve never thought that,” and you can picture the way her shoulders relax at your words. She had always worried that her flaws were too varied – and her strengths too lacking. “I think you’re incredibly strong, especially to feel so much empathy over someone who was not on your side. I love you,” you tack on, almost like a reminder that she's allowed to feel with you – she’s allowed to admit things and be vulnerable and it's okay. 

She clears her throat, and your heart aches for her. Long distance truly never got easier, but absence did make the heart fonder. “When do you come home?” you offer. Natashas' window of vulnerability had closed by now. But every time, that window got a little longer (for you. The S.H.I.E.L.D. appointed therapist still didn’t even have a window). 

She hums at that, and you can hear ruffling on the other line – she liked to talk to you before bed. It was her version of long distance pillowtalk. “Should be home tomorrow night.” she answers, as a yawn escapes your lips. “You’re tired,” she notes, and there's a hint of apology in her words. 

“‘M not even tired,” you mutter in protest, “I have never yawned in my life. Swear,” you grouse, and she lets out a soft laugh at your words. Your lips curve up at that. You always liked being able to make her laugh; she didn’t laugh unless it was genuinely funny. She laughed with you quite a lot.

“You’re a liar,” she chides. “And you snore. I miss your snoring,” she admits.

“That's gay,” you mumble, head lolling against the pillow. 

“So was the phone sex we had last night?” she counters, and you both delve into giggles. Even though the two of you were apart, you can tell that she muffled her laughs in her pillow – just like you did. 

“Shut up. I need to go to bed,” you mutter, trying to change the topic. You would probably never get used to how easy it was to talk to her. “Stay on the phone. Don’t hang up”

“Needy. Have I ever hung up on you?” she asks, the indulgence in her voice ridiculously evident. “One time your phone died,” you retort, before letting out a big yawn. “Tell me about the rest of your day” Mid-way through her story, she hears a soft snore crackle through the line. “Are you asleep right now?” 

“. . .” 

If you were awake, you’d be able to visualize the fond look on her face. “Goodnight. I love you. Sleep well,” she whispers. 

[nanamisgirly]

more womanizer sugu pls begging on my knees I'll eat it up ur writing is so engaging 🙏

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliees <33

+ thank you so much🥹 part.1 part.2

who would have thought womanizer!geto would be at your boyfriend's ‘close’ friends party? he's on the couch, legs spread as always, a lazy hand holding his beer—fingers adorned with silver rings, nails freshly painted black with chipped edges. his tongue flashes when he takes a lazy sip, licking foam off his lip like he's bored. like he's not watching you.

every. fucking. step.

womanizer!geto who can't help but have his eyes coming back to your boyfriend's arm draped protectively over your shoulders. he can't help but stares at your soft belly showing above your pale purple long skirt—thighs around your waist.

you don't need to look over to feel your (ex)best friend's eyes all over your body. and you try so hard to ignore the heat crawling up your neck. his gaze is molten behind the rim of his drink. 

you know how womanizer!geto is. lazy on the outside, dangerous underneath. and he proved it pretty well weeks ago when he left you twitching on sheets soaked with your own slick, without so much as a backward glance. 

and he's possessive.

womanizer!geto thinks you're his. so he watches openly disgusted when your stem boy fixes your necklace, adjusting it on your throat with a grin, calling you ‘his golden girl’. but as fucked up as this whole situation is, geto leans back and spreads his legs wider, the thick ridge of his hardening cock visible, pressing against the zipper of his jeans. gauging your reactions, and muttering "cute", voice low and slow and meant only for you, even across the room. 

your thighs press together. you hate him. you hate how easy it is for him—how just a glance, a few lazy words, can leave your cunt clenching around nothing. you hate how you're practically drooling, nipples hard against your tiny top at the mental image of his thick cock. 

you're feeling so guilty with your boyfriend's hand stroking your back sweetly—flinching at his touch. “you okay, baby?” he asks, all concerned.

“yeah,” you nod too quickly. “i just…need a sec. bathroom.” he kisses your cheek, all sweet and trusting. “i'll wait for you.”

womanizer!geto watches it all, and when he sees you rise—hips swaying in that skirt and top, heels clicking—he laughs under his breath. he lets his head fall back against the couch, long black hair spilling over his shoulders, Adam's apple bobbing with a slow swallow. his inked throat exposed.

he looks like sin, pure and unbothered. and he knows it—knows you're watching. and you're probably losing your mind right now, not only feeling wet but literally having your panties drenched. your heart is thundering as you stumble away down the hallway, your boyfriend waving gently behind you—so clueless.

geto smiles wider, licking his bottom lip, already pushing himself up from the couch with that lazy, predatory grace. because what better than now to make his move? 

the smell of cheap tequila and weed lingers in the air—but under that, something him. that sandalwood and smoke and sweat that haunted your sheets for weeks. your hands grip the bathroom's sink tighter. you breath like you've run a marathon, thighs slick and trembling. you haven't even touched and you're already close.

your heart kicks up at the sudden shift of the door handle. instinctively, you speak before you lift your head, “sorry, i'm getting out—” but your words die on your tongue as you meet eyes with unnatural, almost-glowing violet. 

womanizer!geto steps in and shuts the door behind with a soft click. no urgency, no permission asked.

“didn't mean to interrupt,” he murmurs, voice like honey. “though…judging by those thighs, i'm guessing you needed more than just a minute.” his eyes slowlyyy drags all over your body, burning you. 

you take a step back, body trembling slightly. “that skirt,” he says, walking closer to you. “you wore it for him?” you stiffen. “you think he deserves that?” he cages you in seconds between the sink and his body, so close you can feel the heat of his cock against your lower belly, hard and demanding through his jeans. 

“you think he's the one that earned that fat cunt? that soft stomach? you think he deserves to see you jiggle when you ride him?” your gasp is humiliating. your back arches, pressing your hardening nipple agains his torso.

geto chuckles darkly. “tell me something,” he growls, hand sliding down your waist, stopping just above the curve of your ass. “does he even get on his knees for you?” you don't answer. “or does he think a pussy like yours doesn't deserve to be worshipped?” his voice dips to a snarl, hot and wet against your cheek. “bet he eats you like he's scared of getting messy.”

his free hand finally brushes your stomach, a single tattooed ring-clad finger dragging down. “i dream about tasting you, sweetie. dream about your thighs around my head, soaking my face ‘til i can’t fucking breathe. does he do that? does he make you cry with his tongue, sweet thing?”

your hands fist at your sides, eyes closed shut as he dips his head—nuzzling the crook of your neck, smelling your delicate perfume—he fights not to roll his eyes to the back of his head, totally intoxicated by your sent. “i should fuck you right here,” he whispers. “right up against this sink. let everyone hear how loud that cunt gets when i ruin it. show himwhat you sound like when someone actually knows how to touch you.”

you whimper, thighs clenching tight. you hate how badly you need him. hate how your boyfriend's name feels like a betrayal in your throat and not geto's one.

“go on,” he murmurs, biting gently at your earlobe. “go back to him, pretty. let him kiss the mouth that's been begging to chock on my cock.” 

womanizer!geto pulls away. just like that. leaves you panting, dripping and flushed red—once again.

you blink, once, twice, third—maybe a thousands time. you don't know. your heart is almost bursting. you force yourself to fix your hair in the mirror after he left—your reflection blurred with shame. you wipe your mouth, though nothing happened.

but you wish it had. you wish it hadn't. you don't even know what to wish anymore.

but one thing you clearly weren't wishing for was finding your boyfriend waiting outside the bathroom. you don't know if he saw geto getting out too. 

he's leaning against the wall, half-smiling—a bit drunk. “was starting to wonder,” he murmurs, brushing your arm. “everything okay??” you don't know what to say, how to feel. “yeah,” you lie, the word catching dry in your throat. “needed a pause that's all.” 

the way your eyes dart away from him like he's the one who should be ashamed perturbs him. and he's about to ask again when a voice cuts in.

“yo.” crowding the hallway like he owns the place, broad shoulders relaxed, beer bottle hooked loosely between ringed fingers. geto's hair loose, mouth curled—smug and knowing. “having a lover escape?” he says, looking straight at your boyfriend—but never really seeing him. his eyes crawl over you instead. linger on your plush thighs. the flush in your cheeks. 

your boyfriend straightens up. awkward, confused. “well..huh, yes?”

womanizer!geto hums, brow lifting just slightly. “that's cute.” his eyes drag back to yours. something filthy dances behind his lashes. “real cute.”

stem boy clears his throat, stiff with something between confusion and creeping dread. “you're… geto, right? her best friend?”

“oh, best friend?” his eyes flick between you two, amused. “we can say it like that,” his lips twitch. “we were close. still are. sometimes.” he steps in just slightly—the movement so casual it shouldn't feel threatening. but it is.

your boyfriend shifts instinctively, body tensing like he can’t decide if he needs to defend or retreat.

“crazy thing,” he goes on, conversational, “you know how sometimes a girl just has to show up in your bed at two in the morning, crying about her sweet little boyfriend, wearing one of your shirts and nothing else?” he taps the beer bottle against his palm. “swear she just needed to ‘talk’”

your boyfriend flinches. and so do you. because what was his saying? you never did that. not exactly. and for your defense he was the one provoking. but the memory of his violet eyes staring at your glistening cunt while telling you how to touch yourself—this was really wrong. 

your brows brows draw together in fury, amusing geto. “i was wondering, she do that with you too? or just me?” your voice is frozen in your throat, seeing red.

“wait—” your boyfriend starts but is quickly cutting off by the black haired man.

“does she ever sit on your face while crying?” he adds smoothly. “say your name like it's the only word she knows.”

you choke. and still, geto doesn't even look at your boyfriend.

he leans against the wall now, casual, one leg crossed over the other, taking another sip of his beer like he’s just chatting. “in case you haven't clicked the puzzle together, i'm talking about her.” he nods toward you. “and i was truly curious if you eat this fat cunt like she deserves? also, did you notice she likes getting it talked to?"

your boyfriend stiffens. “don't fucking talk about her like that.”

“why not?” geto grins wider, savoring every seconds of the discussion. “she likes it. don't you, sweetie?” you can't breathe. you're burning from the inside out.

womanizer!geto tilts his head in deception when you don't answer. “she's not very talkative right now, but i promise, if you know how to use your poor three inches correctly she might be a bit noisy. and since i feel kind lately, im giving you a tips : she likes being called a pretty little slut.”

he nods down. right at the space between your thighs. “bet she's soaking through those lacy little panties right now.” geto leans in, smirking at your boyfriend like he's finally acknowledging him—and only to insult him.

"tell me, does she make those sweet little sounds for you?” he sneers. “or is it always quiet in your bed? you touch her and she just lays there, huh? makes sense. girls like her—they need to be handled. not coddled.”

you want to scream. you want to claw his mouth shut. but you also want to fall into his chest and let him wreck you all over again.

your boyfriend stares at you, livid, like he doesn't recognize you anymore. like he's been stabbed in the chest and doesn't know what did it.

“tell him,” geto whispers, grinning widely at your reactions. “tell him who makes that greedy little pussy ache. be honest. he deserves honesty, doesn't he?”

the hallway goes silent. and the world teeters on the edge.

you feel like drowning on dry land—blood roaring in your ears. your boyfriend's gaze cuts into you, wide and wounded and shaking with disbelief. you've never seen him like this. he looks like a stranger, and maybe you do too.

“cat got your tongue?” womanizer!geto murmurs, eyes dark and glittering. he's just too cruel none of that is necessary. “or is it just still sore from gagging on mine?” and he's lying above all that. adding stuff that never happened just to push your limits.

a strangled noise breaks from your boyfriend's throat. “you're kidding me,” he breathes, voice cracking, half laugh, half plea. “tell me he's lying. tell me.”

but how are you supposed to explain this? to explain the thrill? the desire that is so much more than what you've ever felt with your boyfriend. how do you voice the way geto's presence twists everything inside you?

“i didn't mean to—” you start weakly.

“you know what… save it.” your boyfriend snaps, cutting you off with a voice so sharp it makes your heart drop. the silence lingers in the air, thick and suffocating. and all you can hear is the humping of your heart, each beat painfully loud.

“i thought i knew you. thought you were mine.” his voice is quiet, full of disbelief. “but i guess, i was wrong.” his eyes shine—not from tears, not yet—but from the kind of heartbreak that scorches clean through.

and in front of him, womanizer!geto laughs. low, pleased, like it’s private entertainment.

he doesn’t even try to hide it—how much he’s enjoying this. the destruction. the ruin. the way your boyfriend looks at you like you’re poison and he just drank deep.

geto steps forward, licking his teeth behind a smirk that should be illegal.

“don’t look so shocked, man,” he murmurs, cocky and cold. “you never had her. you just babysat what was already mine.”

his fingers twitch like he wants to grab you—like he could, right there, and no one would stop him.

“let her go,” geto says with a shrug. “some girls weren’t made for sweet. they need teeth. need to be ruined to feel real.”

then womanizer!geto glances back at you, grinning slow and filthy.

“and she likes being ruined. don’t you, pretty?”

՞⸝⸝'ᜊ'⸝⸝՞ 

[geminiwritten]

punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find. 

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.” 

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off? 

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter. 

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter. 

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash. 

It was actually quite an impressive stunt. 

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass. 

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good. 

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.” 

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.” 

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors. 

You almost make it out without looking back—almost. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots. 

All but one. 

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl. 

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now. 

- 

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday. 

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base. 

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off. 

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room. 

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.” 

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.” 

Smug prick. 

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.” 

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room. 

“You’re going to let me fly?” 

He chuckles. “Of course.” 

“But-” 

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.” 

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.” 

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.” 

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable. 

You quirk a brow. “You?” 

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?” 

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?” 

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.” 

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.” 

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realize that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought. 

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive. 

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognize you. God, you hope not. 

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.” 

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off. 

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it. 

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost. 

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign. 

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs. 

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit. 

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.” 

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs. 

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along. 

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room. 

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.” 

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.” 

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms. 

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest. 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“Where were you before this?” 

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.” 

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.” 

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.” 

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.” 

“Thanks, Phoenix.” 

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off. 

You like her. No bullshit. 

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried. 

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble. 

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely. 

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room. 

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction. 

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen. 

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?” 

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.” 

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer. 

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.” 

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach. 

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.” 

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe. 

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?” 

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.” 

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.” 

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall. 

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team. 

“Nothing fancy today, alright?” 

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet. 

You frown at it. “But my helmet-” 

“Has your callsign on it.” 

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad. 

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean. 

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. 

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good. 

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms. 

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?” 

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly. 

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?” 

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy. 

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.” 

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds. 

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky. 

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead. 

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.” 

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now. 

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face. 

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of. 

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet? 

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall. 

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when— 

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.” 

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room. 

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again. 

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to. 

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks. 

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.” 

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.” 

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them. 

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts. 

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.” 

You snort quietly. 

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in. 

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes. 

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.” 

- 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance. 

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight. 

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley. 

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start. 

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip. 

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence. 

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment. 

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep. 

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him. 

Ugh. Gross. 

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork. 

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there. 

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack. 

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet. 

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.” 

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass. 

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.” 

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?” 

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.” 

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-” 

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief. 

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.” 

“Punishment?” 

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself. 

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-” 

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!” 

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. 

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.” 

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.” 

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.” 

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.” 

“It’ll be too late.” 

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley. 

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod. 

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.” 

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar. 

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid. 

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections. 

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley. 

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time. 

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles. 

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles. 

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.” 

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.” 

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.” 

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.” 

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear. 

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults. 

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?” 

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.” 

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?” 

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?” 

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”  

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.” 

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer. 

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does. 

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer. 

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over. 

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.  

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.” 

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.” 

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay. 

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.” 

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips. 

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.” 

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face. 

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.” 

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling. 

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?” 

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.” 

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.” 

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?” 

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.” 

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”  

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him. 

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.” 

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.” 

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet. 

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner? 

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke. 

But what the hell is that supposed to mean? 

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to. 

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull? 

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.” 

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf. 

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced. 

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.” 

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.” 

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words. 

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to? 

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings. 

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them. 

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech. 

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward. 

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door. 

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water. 

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?” 

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.” 

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe? 

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer. 

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm. 

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink. 

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest. 

“This is just my luck,” you mutter. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.” 

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue. 

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?” 

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly. 

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.” 

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.” 

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.” 

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter. 

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.” 

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely. 

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?” 

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found. 

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.” 

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.” 

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at. 

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly. 

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.” 

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?” 

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.” 

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.” 

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.” 

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you. 

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?” 

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping. 

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.” 

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move. 

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…” 

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth. 

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.” 

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows. 

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still. 

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur. 

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?” 

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.” 

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away. 

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.” 

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?” 

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck. 

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him. 

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral? 

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?” 

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.” 

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?” 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“When’d you get it?” 

“Flight school.” 

“Is there a cool story behind it?” 

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.” 

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?” 

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway. 

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question. 

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?” 

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?” 

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-” 

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.” 

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?” 

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.” 

This man is actually trying to kill you. 

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.” 

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?” 

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.” 

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.” 

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.” 

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect. 

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” 

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?” 

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.” 

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.” 

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.” 

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?” 

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?” 

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.” 

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar. 

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade. 

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.” 

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?” 

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot. 

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly. 

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight. 

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable. 

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap. 

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm. 

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin. 

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving. 

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap. 

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself. 

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief. 

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.” 

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours. 

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not. 

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle. 

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you. 

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct. 

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable. 

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover. 

- 

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like… 

Holy shit. 

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit. 

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe. 

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life. 

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door. 

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed. 

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognize any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early. 

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case. 

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?” 

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.” 

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.” 

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk. 

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” 

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices. 

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.” 

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?” 

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?” 

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.” 

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.” 

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you. 

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.” 

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking. 

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!” 

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?” 

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.” 

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move. 

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?” 

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet. 

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time. 

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame. 

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective. 

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light. 

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.” 

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening. 

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well. 

Maverick. 

Your stomach drops. 

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery. 

You're never living this down. 

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.” 

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.” 

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.” 

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.” 

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again. 

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?” 

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.” 

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?” 

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.” 

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.” 

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-” 

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused. 

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk. 

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.” 

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.” 

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together. 

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills. 

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit. 

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone. 

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning. 

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him. 

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left. 

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought. 

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last. 

- 

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world. 

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut. 

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with. 

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone. 

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in. 

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.” 

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit. 

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you. 

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?” 

You don’t react. 

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.” 

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.” 

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault. 

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?” 

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up. 

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn. 

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.” 

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does. 

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?” 

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap. 

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out. 

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care. 

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you. 

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.” 

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.” 

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.” 

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t. 

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.” 

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths. 

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. 

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.” 

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle. 

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place. 

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room. 

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly. 

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots. 

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement. 

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful. 

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?” 

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too. 

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone. 

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.” 

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive. 

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended. 

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do. 

At least you’ll die happy. 

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask. 

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction. 

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.” 

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.” 

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.” 

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible. 

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back. 

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest. 

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next. 

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast. 

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.” 

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base. 

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six. 

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.” 

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat. 

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.” 

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight. 

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.” 

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?” 

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.” 

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp. 

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask. 

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.” 

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust. 

All you need is the green light. The words. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever. 

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze. 

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn. 

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline. 

“Flip the switch, Jinx.” 

You’re gone before they can take their next breath. 

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice. 

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind. 

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.” 

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up. 

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.” 

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.” 

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat. 

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares. 

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate. 

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.” 

“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.” 

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.” 

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze. 

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.” 

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.” 

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp. 

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?” 

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly. 

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?” 

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!” 

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy. 

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly. 

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly. 

“Boo,” you whisper. 

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!” 

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there. 

Tone lock. Missile fired. 

“Damn it!” Reuben groans. 

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun. 

Then you wait. 

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation. 

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps. 

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement. 

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit. 

Then you dive. 

Fast. Precise. Dead-on. 

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams. 

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin. 

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard. 

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop. 

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly. 

Jake looks up. 

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger. 

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide. 

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.” 

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown. 

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face. 

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?” 

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.” 

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base. 

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.” 

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you. 

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend. 

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline. 

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.” 

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.” 

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you. 

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-” 

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm. 

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley. 

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.” 

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything. 

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.” 

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh. 

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-” 

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside. 

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.” 

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.” 

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.” 

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?” 

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots. 

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease. 

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared. 

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.” 

You don’t think. You just move. 

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word. 

And then you kiss him. 

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this. 

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match. 

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash. 

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching. 

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear. 

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.” 

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.” 

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw. 

“We’re never living that down, are we?” 

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.” 

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest. 

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room. 

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him. 

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. 

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.” 

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking tempt me.” 

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting. 

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him. 

END.

[unluckilyimnot]

Bed chem – trafalgar law

You have nightmares and happen to bump into your captain in the middle of the night. ~2k

Note: first one piece post, not the last, i just restart reading it. made this late last night. My bsf told me it was nice so here it is

main m.list | m.list | rules

It was the middle of the night when you woke up from yet another nightmare. You’re gasping for air, having a hard time collecting your thoughts and grounding yourself. Tears peak at the corner of your eyes – you need to get away from this feeling. So you get up, not bothering to put some pants on based on the hour and go looking for a glass of water. Chills can be seen on your arms, but you swear yourself you’ll be quick. You walk fast around the ship you know now like the back of your hand, you’re not really looking, not bothering turning the light on – until you hit into someone right in front of the kitchen.

“Shit.” You cursed before you can even make sense of who’s in front of you. He turned on the light, that way can finally see your captain, bare chest, making his way to the kitchen as well – you figured. If you had a hard time grounding yourself, hitting your nose right in Law’s chest was very efficient. You didn’t mention how he’s dressed, neither does he for you. There’s just a knowing look between you two.

“Couldn’t sleep too ?” you ask, walking in the kitchen and getting your needed glass of water while he took an apple.

“No.” He waited a moment, enough for you to finish your glass in one go, before asking, absently. “Nightmares ?”

There’s a long silence, more comfortable than you’d expected. He knows what he’s talking about, you don’t need to hear him saying it – you just know. That’s probably not the first time he hears you wandering around the Polar Tang at night, and it’s certainly not the first time you hear him either. You’re always awake around the same hours, but it’s the first time you ran into each other.

“Yes.” You answer in the same tone.

He nods, taking a knife, then sits at the table. There’s chills on his back as well, but he doesn’t seem to care. You look away quickly, not wanting to face him when you just checked him out. You pulled another glass from the shelf, filling them both before sitting next to him. You lean slowly on the table ; your hands couldn’t reach the other side, but you still liked to try. You don’t really know why you sat next to him when you usually don’t even bother to check on him, but finding yourself in the same room as him, in the middle of the night, felt a little intimate. You liked it : sitting in silence, giving him a glass of water he didn’t ask for. It felt right.

Without a word, Law handed you an apple’s slice. You looked at it for a second, blinking twice before taking it. You took a bite, eyes glimmering at the sweet taste before he ate one himself. It goes on for a while. Law gave you another one after finishing his, and so on, until the apple was done.

“You want more ?” he asked roughly, his voice was deeper than usual from the late hour. When you shook your head he got up and threw it away, leaving the knife and both glasses  in the sink and leaned on the counter. You knew he was staring at your back, probably dying to ask something, just like you, but wouldn’t dare. Then he moves again, his hand brushing along your shoulders.

“Come with me,” he whispers, as if talking would push you over the edge. It wouldn’t, but you didn’t say anything. You look up at him, not knowing where this was going. A small frown formed on your face, making him roll his eyes.

“I’m not gonna eat you,” he snored before patting your shoulder gently.

You got up this time, following him in the dark hallway to his cabin. You stopped by the door, not daring to take a step ahead. There’s a twisted feeling in your guts, you’re not sure you can walk through the door and then leave the same. Law turns back to look at you.

“Let’s stay awake together, if neither of us can sleep,” he clears things out quickly, of course, but it still feels weird. Yet, you take that step and walk into his cabin as he closes the door behind you.

You don’t really know what to do at first, and now you feel really self-aware ; you regret the small pair of shorts you could’ve easily put on. Noticing you fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, he showed you his blanket, authorizing you to lay in his bed as he puts on a shirt before sitting at his desk. So you do. Let the warmth engulf you, drowning in his scent – you feel safe, finally, and your body understood it faster than you because you yawned quietly.

You're laying on your side, rolled into his blanket, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can I sleep here ?”

“Sure,” he said softly after a moment, you can tell he wants to ask something else but isn’t sure. You fight to keep your eyes open for a few more minutes.

“Do you mind if I join ?”

“No.” You didn’t hesitate, maybe because you’re already half asleep. “It’s your bed.”

You hear him chuckles, but it’s far away already. Your eyes close slowly and you hold the sheet a little closer. You’re not even fully asleep when you feel his arms pulling you up and bringing you up to the pillow before he lays next to you. There’s space between you, but he’s radiating so much heat, you’re drawn to him like a moth to light. You don’t remember touching him, not really. You think you do but you can imagine it totally as well. You fall asleep with the weird feeling of his arm around your waist.

When you wake up the next morning, the sun is piercing through the round porthole falling right to your face. You roll away from it, hitting Law's arm. He’s covering his eyes but slowly moving as well. Your eyes are still half closed when you catch his also half asleep eyes. He groaned, stretching his arms above his head even if his limbs hit the wall. You pull the blanket closer to your face, hiding the small blush you can feel coming dangerously to your face.

He’s hot. His hair is a mess, his eyes shine with sleep after he yawns. It feels like cheating, seeing him so vulnerable. He doesn’t say anything, neither do you, not yet. He gets up before you, only putting pants on before giving you a shirt – longer than the one you wear at the moment, so you can go back to your cabin and change.

“I’ll make your coffee,” he says, finally, his voice still deep and rough from sleep.

Something flips inside you. You bury your head in your pillow before nodding. You hear the door close behind him and sigh, before groaning in the pillow. You take your head out of it, gasping for air a little, feeling so flustered. It feels weird thinking about it, you don’t even dare talking about it ! But it was nice. You slept well, you were hot all night, not curled up on yourself. It was comforting having him close, being able to touch him and hear him breathe. You shake your head. You don’t want to think about it.

But you do. It doesn’t leave your mind all day. You kept thinking about his arm around your waist you’re sure you didn’t imagine. How you just fell on him in the middle of the night, how he wanted to sleep at the same time as you, how you two woke up at the same time… You couldn’t help but think you two match each other too much.

Of course you noticed how well rested he looked as well, it didn’t go unnoticed by anyone in fact. He’s less on edge, a bit less firm in his words, he laughed at one of Sachi’s jokes – almost made the man choke on air. It wasn’t just you, he slept way better as well.

Yet neither of you mentioned it. You go on your days like you usually do, without looking at each other more than necessary, without lingering touch. It didn’t change anything, after all. Right ? It was a one time thing, you wanted to believe it.

Until you woke up again in the middle of the night later the same week. You went for a glass of water, like usual, but this time you stayed a little longer in the kitchen, waiting. You felt silly, but you kept your eyes on the ocean on the other side of the porthole with your glass still in hand. Until you hear him walking around the corner, the barely marked stop in his track when he sees the lights on before you imagine him walking in.

“You again ?” he chuckles but there’s no fun in his voice, only a strange softness you didn’t expect. Or maybe you did. You don’t want to think about it. You turned his way, smiling at him.

“Who else ?”

He’s still bare chest, he can still see the beginning of your ass because your shirt barely covers it but you don’t mind. He walks to you, stealing your glass from your hand before filling it and drinking.

“Nightmares ?” It’s your time to ask now as you stare softly his way. He turned around and leaned on the counter next to you, crossing his arms.

“Didn’t have time to fall asleep yet,” he cleared, but didn’t say he didn’t have some. You whine at his words.

“It’s three in the morning, captain,” you nagged. “You should try at least.”

“’Cause you do ? Then why are you here, almost every night, at the same time ?” there’s a mocking smirk on his lips – he’s not buying it.

“Well, yes, I do sleep. I’m just the best at it,” you pout a little, before laughing lightly. There’s nothing to laugh about, but the conversation made you laugh anyway. You miss the light in his eyes, and you for sure would never think his heart would ache at the sound. And yet. 

“We have a really good bed chem, Law,” you confessed after some time. You’re now leaned on the counter, leaving your head on your arms. He doesn’t dare look at you, you guess, because he’s suddenly stiff beside you. “We wake up at the same hours in the night. Fell asleep at the same time the other night, and woke up together as well,” you comment, not sure if you expected him to speak or not. “It felt nice,” you confessed, finally. “I slept well that night.”

He can see you half naked by now, but that’s only fair in your opinion. His eyes linger on your for a second before looking away and finishing his glass. “Yeah, me too.”

Your heart skips a beat at his word and you can’t help the smile on your lips.

“Can I sleep with you tonight ?” you ask, confidence showing up out of nowhere.

“Sure.”

He’s distant, not looking your way anymore as he pushes himself off the counter but he waits for you by the door, and he lets you choose the pillow you prefer. And he pulls you to his chest when you turn your back to him after saying goodnight this time, holding your waist so close to him you can barely move. But it’s fine, you’re not arguing that, not when you fell asleep so easily ; not when all your nightmares go away when he’s near.  

I might do another part, idk yet. Ace is gonna have his version too hihi. Let's me know if you liked it!

[szatears]

t.l.c., smoke.

summary: thinking about smoke coming home to you after pulling off a job with his brother...

pairing: smoke x blackfem!reader

warnings: slight description of reader, some details of injury and stitching and injury, mainly fluff, hint of suggestive tones, smoke being smoke.

notes: resisting the urge to go see sinners yet again is so hard 😖 also i'm posting this quite late it's literally 2am ?!

You heard his footsteps first. Quiet yet heavy, slow yet you could imagine him hurrying to take off his coat. He closed the door behind him firmly, the sound echoing throughout your shared home.

You carried on folding the pile of clothes that had finished drying, sat on the small, cosy sofa smoke had bought.

He let out a sigh when he laid his eyes on you, a relaxed one or a content one, you couldn't quite tell. You turned your face to look at him, a soft smile on your lips.

Strands of your curly hair were a little out of place from the tight pulled back bun you put it into, and you were sure you looked even more tired than you actually were. But to Smoke, you looked perfect. And he always told you that, he never failed to.

You stood up, as he walked towards you, hanging his coat up by the door. Placing the basket of clothes down by the leg of the sofa, you welcomed your husband back into your arms after a long three days.

Sure you had company, that company being your siblings and Mary coming over unannounced as she usually did, but it didn't compare to the company Smoke provided for you.

"Hi, baby," He mumbled into the crook of your neck as he hugged you back, his arms gently squeezing you into him as if you'd slip away from him if he didn't.

You leaned back to get a good look at his face, your hand caressing over his cheeks with so much care. "You take care of yourself out there?"

You always asked the same question in a different form, making sure he actually listened to you and came back to you in one piece like he always said he would.

But instead of kissing your worries away and telling you he was fine, Smoke winced a little as he pulled his undershirt up a little, revealing a graze that needed tending to.

You gasped a little, holding his shirt up higher so you could see better. "It's not too bad, mama," he tried to tell you. If it wasn't for you, he'd probably attempt to sleep it off or smoke a cigarette to ease the pain, most definitely leaving it to get infected.

"Stop, don't do that. C'mon." You didn't give him room to argue, pulling him to the bathroom where you had everything you needed to stitch him back up.

The wound wasn't too bad, it looked like a graze from a bullet but he definitely needed stitching to close it up properly.

"Baby, you ain't gotta worry yourself with all that, just leave it, I'ma be fine," Smoke sighed, seeing you get out all your supplies.

You scoffed, ignoring his pleas. "What, you scared of a lil' needle?" you held it up near his face as if trying to prove your point.

Smoke laughed a little, clutching at his side. "Girl, ain't no one scared of yo' lil' ass needle, move." He kissed his teeth, but leaned back against the bathroom counter when you pushed at his chest.

"Take it off," you tugged at his undershirt, which you could see was soaked in blood under the light.

"Ooh, you a fast one," he joked, chuckling when you straight faced him. Nonetheless he took off his tank top, throwing it in the basket of dirty laundry.

"You want a drink? This is gonna hurt."

"... Yeah."

He didn't need to hesitate because you both knew he was gonna have a drink regardless, that's just what a rough day did to him.

You left the bathroom and came back with a bottle of whiskey, handing it to him. You waited for him to take a swig of it before kissing his lips briefly.

"I'm sorry?"

Smoke furrowed his brows a little. "For what─── God damn," he groaned when you thread the needle into his skin, immediately drinking the whiskey again.

It went on like that for a few more moments, Smoke cursing and huffing. He didn't drink too much of the whiskey because he didn't want to get flat out drunk when what he really wanted was to be close to you, what he had been looking forward to all day.

When you finished the stitch, you wrapped it up in a bandage carefully. You let him take a shower whilst you finished putting away the laundry, getting into your nightdress while he did so.

When he came out, you went back into the bathroom to put away what you used to stitch him up. "Here, go sit down while I clean up."

"You gon' come to bed when you done?" He asked, not meeting your eyes as he looked at your handiwork on his body.

You smiled at the way he was still shy to show you that affectionate side of him, that he was still a needy guy underneath that mean and tough exterior he had.

"Yeah, baby, I'll be just a minute."

He nodded, taking himself to your bedroom. You knew he wouldn't be sitting up when you found him but instead lying down, which he was.

He'd put on the shkrts he always wore to bed, this time abandoning a tank top incase the stitches bled through it, which he was sure they wouldn't, you were really good at what you did.

You crawled into bed beside your husband, his warm hands waiting for you. He immediately went to pull you close to his chest but you tutted. "What?" he looked between you two, trying to figure out what was wrong.

"You forgetting you're hurt? Or do you wanna bust open them stitches?" you laughed when the realisation sunk on his face. He was so used to sleeping with you like that, that it had become a natural sleeping position for him.

He grumbled, confused on how to proceed given the circumstances. You took the lead, pulling him over your body so that his head rested on your chest. You knew you wouldn't wake up in the same position but it was still nice to fall asleep close to him like that.

One of your hands gently stroked over his neck, lulling him towards his sleep. Smoke couldn't describe to you just how much he needed moments like this, needed you. There was a specific type of comfort that you brought him, and he longed for it every time he was away from you.

You could feel him relax in your hold, finally being able to let his guard down even if it was just four a couple of hours.

You bent your head down, kissing his cheek softly before you nestled in beside him.

"I love you," he whispered it so faintly, you thought you heard his voice waver at the end. You could never doubt the love that Smoke had for you; he loved you fiercely and he loved you proudly.

"I love you, too."

taglist.

@childishgambinaax @abriefnirvana @blackisy2k @chrisevansmentee @siasoup @amethyst09 @heauxtales @skywalker0809 @thelightknight21 @klssngss @atomicearthquakemusic7 @oc3anbxbyxoxo @honestlyurslol @simpingfor-wakasa

[glamourscat]

BDAY BOY | NAGI X READER

bday smut and nagi being a hopeless romantic. came out more romantic than I anticipated but I’m not complaining lol

Hopeless romantic. That’s it. That’s how Nagi would describe himself. Not that he would admit it. You had to see it. Understand it. Feel it on your own skin. In order to truly comprehend the sheer audacity of this man.

From the appearance a bored sloth. But inside is a simple guy who’s longing for his own fairytale ending.

Which is why, on the morning of May 6th, his birthday, his officially sanctioned day of slacking off he does the most un Nagi thing imaginable.

He wakes up before noon.

Well. Almost before noon.

The sun filters through his window just enough to be a bother. His phone is buzzing where it’s fallen between the mattress and the floor, Reo probably, sending him aggressive birthday emojis and reminders to please eat something besides convenience store melon bread. But Nagi’s eyes don’t open until he feels the weight on the other side of his bed.

You.

Half asleep, curled into a ball and your scent that smells like that sakura body cream you so much love. You mumble something into the pillow that he didn’t manage to catch. But your voice alone was enough to let his heart do a stupid little flip.

He stares at you for a minute. Two. Maybe three. The minutes slip away like dandelion seeds in the wind. And he thinks quietly, the way Nagi always thinks “Yeah. This. This is the fairytale stuff I have always longed for.”

He could take a picture. Post it. Caption it something annoyingly cryptic. But instead, he just nudges closer. Presses his nose into your hair. He’s not good with words and besides, this feels like enough for now.

Eventually, you crack an eye open. “You’re staring again.”

“Birthday privilege,” he mutters into your neck.

You laugh, soft and raspy. “So what’s the plan, Mr. Hopeless Romantic?”

He grunts. “Weren’t you planning it?”

“Was I? What am I now? Your personal maid? I fear you have been spending too much time with Reo” you tease lightly, voice still laced with sleep.

You can hear Nagi grumble something but your ears don’t catch it. In fact, you’re too busy focusing on the slow, lazy trail of cold neck kisses he is leaving on you.

“Nagi?” You murmur softly, a gentle call as your hands run in his white hair.

“Uhm?” He hummed, not even bothering looking up. Not even bothering stopping.

“It’s your birthday. I should be the one spoiling you, not the other way around.” You chuckle quietly, moving your head just a bit to allow more access to his lips onto your neck, which he gladly takes.

“Little details that I am absolutely not concerned about right now” he murmurs quietly, each word punctuated by a kiss.

A soft moan leaves your lips. And your lips, tired of waiting, greedily unified with his in a slow yet enticing kiss. It was the way his hand slipped right under your (his) hoodie. Gently letting his finger trail your body as if he hadn’t already countless times before.

It’s the way he prolonged the kiss more and more. Letting his tongue savour each and every corner of your mouth. Dancing tongues and breaths mixing together as his face squished with yours. His body suddenly on yours as you arched your back for more contact, which the bastard sneakily denied. Pressing his chest more into yours and he lets you feel all of him.

“Nagi” you managed to gasp between kisses, as your hands move to his lower back.

He hums again, low, distracted and entirely too pleased with himself. His lips trail down your jawline and neck again like he’s committing your skin to memory for the thousandth time and still thinks it’s not enough.

“This doesn’t feel very birthday boy of you,” you mumble, though your voice is already breaking into something softer, needier. Your fingers caressing his exposed lower back, gently tracing his spine.

“Don’t wanna move,” he says into your collarbone, “You’re warm.”

“You’re heavy.”

“You like it.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. You do. You like the weight of him on you, the lazy grind of hips he probably isn’t even aware he’s doing, the way his breath hitches just a little every time your nails trace over his spine. The way his morning erection is hitting right against your heat. And it’s such a hazy, addictive moment you can’t help but be captivated by it.

His hands explore your body slowly, with care and wander. One slides up your thigh under the covers, ghosting over the bare skin like he’s in no rush, because he’s not. Because Nagi is never in a rush and right now the only goal is unraveling you. Making you squirm just enough to make you lose your mind.

He pulls back from your neck to fully and really look at you. Sleepy eyed, hair a mess, mouth kiss swollen and still asking for more. And yet, still the most beautiful thing he had ever had the privilege of laying his eyes upon.

“You look…,” a pause. A long breath as he tried to take hold of his thoughts. “Absolutely breathtaking” he says simply, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

“Nagi—”

“No, listen.” He shifts his weight a little, enough to lean in even closer, foreheads pressed “You make everything feel like spring. Even when I’m tired. Even when I don’t feel like talking.”

Your heart skips. It’s corny. He’s corny. But when Nagi says things like that, they’re always weirdly devastating because you know he means it.

“Can we stay like this forever?” He whispers. His fingers find yours under the blanket once again. And for a moment the world outside disappears. Just enough for you two to enjoy another kiss.

His hips slowly rolling into yours as he lets a small whine slip out. Quiet. Raw. Almost shy. It’s the kind of sound that turns your insides to mush.

You don’t even know when his hand slid higher, only that now his palm is pressed between your thighs. His touch is teasing. Deliberate.

“You always get like this on your birthday?” you ask against his mouth, your tone all sarcastic, betrayed by the way your hips are already pressing into his hand.

“Only with you,” he says, too fast. Then blinks, like maybe he hadn’t meant to admit it out loud.

You smile, triumphant and wrecked all at once. “Hopeless.”

“Romantic,” he finishes. And there’s that smirk again, lazy, lopsided, only half conscious of its own charm.

His fingers finally trail down, slipping between your thighs, finding your clit. And it’s like all of the air in your lungs gets sucked out. He moves his fingers with the patience of someone who’s worshipping, not just touching. And when your head falls back, he watches you like he’s never seen anything more important. Like you’re his center of gravity.

“You’re so warm… so wet. Damn it. I’m so greedy,” he murmurs to himself.

You want to tease him again, but the words dissolve somewhere between his fingers and his mouth on your neck. There’s no room for sarcasm when he touches you like this.

“Fuck,” you breathe, voice caught somewhere between laughter and a moan.

He groans into your skin in response, low and desperate. “I love you.”

It’s not the first time. But it’s always breathtaking when he does. He doesn’t do it often. Not this loudly and straight to the point. And when it does? Yeah. When he does, it feels intense.

Your hand slides into his hair again, tugging gently. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” His voice cracks just slightly, like he’s giving you something tender and breakable.

And then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time. The air between your bodies hot and humming with everything left unsaid. He removes his fingers out of you and you guide him in. And when he finally pushes inside of you, all of you, the loud moan that leaves your mouths was inevitable.

His hands are grasping at your hips as he keeps thrusting slow and yet deeply. Like you two are becoming one with each movement you two share.

Each kiss and each confession of love he whispers on your skin burns in passion as you two cannot keep your hands off each other.

“Nagi I am—“

“I know” he murmurs with a kiss at your temples. “Let go love”

You aren’t sure if it was the nickname that made you speechless. Or maybe the way he was moving right now, hitting that perfect spot just for you. Or maybe it was the simple realisation that he knows you. All of you. Every inch, every single aspect of you. But you let go. Letting your body be taken over by pleasure, and he follows soon after, smashing his lips against yours once more.

It was probably thirty minutes later, but what felt like hours, that you spoke.

“Happy birthday by the way” you murmured softly against his hair, not daring moving from the cuddle position you two were in. His head on your chest. One leg thrown over your stomach. And arms wrapped around you tightly.

For a moment you thought he didn’t hear you. That he had dozed off. But one of his eyes opens slowly, moving his head just enough to meet your eyes as he whispers against your skin. A final confession, a confirmation. One that doesn’t need anything else because everything has already been told and shown.

“I love you”.

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

If you’re still taking ideas for tonight 🫶🏻 maybe H and y/n going on their first walk as a family - either baby in the carrier on Harry’s chest or y/n pushing the pram, all wrapped up warm on a winter walk then going to meet Anne for a coffee so baby could have nanna cuddles 🥰

Spring Walks.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!!

in which, it’s your’s and harry’s first walk as a family of four, and even though it’s spring, the weathers very chilly and your little one is in the pram whilst your four year old is sat on his daddy’s shoulders.

word count - 1k.

It’s just past ten on a chilly spring morning, the kind where the sky is washed in soft blue and the clouds seem like afterthoughts. The forest trail beneath your feet is damp from last night’s rain, but it smells incredible—earthy, fresh, and full of that green-sap scent that only comes with early leaves.

You wrap your coat tighter around you and glance down into the pram. Your daughter is sleeping soundly, her tiny chest rising and falling under the knit blanket Anne gave you just before she was born. Her face is impossibly small, features still undefined in that newborn way—more like a dream than a person just yet.

“S’out cold,” Harry says, leaning over your shoulder to peek in at her. “Like her mum, snoring by nine.”

You laugh quietly, nudging him. “I do not snore.”

“Y’do a little puff. Like a baby hedgehog.” He makes a tiny snuffling sound and then grins, proud of himself.

“You are so lucky I’m sleep-deprived and too tired to argue.”

He chuckles and shifts his grip on your four-year-old son, who is perched high up on his shoulders, little wellies bouncing lightly against Harry’s chest with each step. His tiny hands are tangled in Harry’s curls, his cheeks rosy and wind-bitten.

“Daddy, look!” your son shouts, pointing toward a squirrel sprinting up a tree. “He’s got something in his mouth! Is it a sandwich?”

Harry squints. “Looks like a bit of leaf or something, buddy. Probably not a sandwich. Squirrels don’t have lunchboxes.”

“They should,” your son decides seriously. “We could give them some snacks.”

You join in, “That’s how you make forest friends, you know. You leave them tiny peanut butter sandwiches, and they send thank-you notes made of twigs.”

“Really?” He gasps, eyes wide.

Harry laughs, “Well, sort of. But you’ve got to be very, very quiet so you don’t scare them.”

Your son nods solemnly and immediately whispers, “Okay.” Then, a second later: “BUT IF I SEE A FOX I’M GONNA SCREAM!.”

You and Harry both burst into quiet laughter, trying not to wake the baby.

You fall into step beside him, the gravel crunching underfoot. The path is scattered with fallen blossoms from some early-flowering tree, pink petals caught in puddles and clinging to your boots.

“Can you believe we’re here?” you say softly. “Family of four. Two whole kids.”

Harry exhales, long and warm, like he’s been holding that feeling in his chest and is only just letting it out. “I know. Feels unreal. Like we blinked and suddenly… we’re outnumbered.”

You laugh. “You’re the one who wanted more chaos.”

“I did,” he admits, smiling. “And I’d do it all again. Every nappy, every midnight bottle, every ‘I want juice’ at four in the morning.”

You glance at him with a smirk. “That last one was you.”

He shrugs. “What can I say? Apple juice tastes better at night.”

A soft wind stirs the leaves around you. You adjust the pram handle, and Harry watches you for a moment before speaking again.

“Y’amazing, you know,” he says quietly. “Like. I watch you with them, and I think—how did I get so lucky?”

You look over at him, touched. “You were charming. And tall. That helped.”

“That’s it then?” he laughs. “Tall and charming?”

You lean into him a little, shoulder brushing his. “And you make a very good climbing frame.”

From above, your son yells, “I’m a tree-climber! I’m on top of Daddy Mountain!”

“Hold on, little explorer,” Harry says, pretending to wobble. “Daddy Mountain’s feeling an earthquake in his back.”

“Don’t fall, Daddy! I’m too small to raise a baby!”

That has you both laughing so hard you have to stop for a moment. You reach up and steady your son’s leg while you catch your breath.

The trail starts to widen, and ahead you can see glimpses of the high street through the thinning trees. The edge of town greets you with the smell of fresh bread from the bakery and a faint bell from someone opening a shop door.

Harry glances over. “Mum said she got us the corner table outside. Figured we’d want space for the pram.”

You nod, grateful. “She always thinks of everything.”

“She’s been dying to show off the baby,” he adds. “I think she’s printed pictures for strangers on the bus.”

“She’s so excited to have another granddaughter, she’s got so many plans already.” Harry adds. “For both of them.”

You smirk. “Like what?”

“She wants to take her first grandbaby to the petting zoo, just them two. And she said we should have a nap together while she watches the baby.”

You blink, surprised. “A nap together? Like… sleep?”

“I know,” Harry teases, “remember that?”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling the warmth in your chest bloom. You’d give anything for just one afternoon of that quiet kind of closeness again. But for now, this walk—this moment—is enough.

As you turn onto the main road, your son gasps. “There’s Nana! I see her!”

Anne is already waving from her spot at the café, wearing a scarf you bought her last Christmas and holding a takeaway cup in one hand. When she sees you, her whole face lights up. She stands before you even reach her, arms out.

Harry gently lifts your son off his shoulders, setting him down. “Go on then, give Nana a cuddle.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice—he races ahead, nearly colliding with her in a hug. Anne laughs and scoops him up effortlessly, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Then she turns to you, eyes misty.

“There’s my girl,” she says, kissing your cheek, then leaning over the pram. “And there’s my littlest love. Oh, she’s perfect.”

Harry wraps an arm around your shoulders, drawing you into him. “We made some good ones, didn’t we?”

You lean into him, smile tugging at your lips as you watch your family. “We really did.”

Anne looks up. “Well, I’ve ordered you both tea, and I got extra pastries because you’re both barely eating anything proper—”

“We eat!” you protest.

“You nibble. Like nervous mice,” she says, waving her hand. “Now sit. Warm up. I’ll cuddle this one in a minute.”

[itoshiierae]

when you accidentally say you hate them #2 ⊹˚.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: rin itoshi, sae itoshi, oliver aiku, nagi seishiro, isagi yoichi

ᡣ𐭩 notes: here’s part one. and once again, this is not proofread HAHAHA. i probably rushed this a little bc i didn’t wanna keep y’all waiting too long, so pls forgive any errors :c but anywayy, here’s part 2. enjoy!!!! <33

ᡣ𐭩 cw: angst (at first), then fluffff <33, you & oliver’s relationship dynamic is wayyy different from the others HAHAH, not isagi being the ONLY confrontational king among the 5 😵‍💫

extras: but let’s be fr, the rest of them are NOT the ‘let’s-talk-it-out’ type unless they’re being cornered lol 💀😭

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

౨ৎ RIN ITOSHI ౨ৎ

the hallway feels emptier without the quiet drag of his footsteps. no soft shuffle of socks, no keys clinking lazily by the door, no sleepy voice mumbling about coffee. just a note, carefully written and left on the coffee table — too neat for how much it hurts.

[“didn’t know if you’d want me around today. left early. don’t worry about it.”]

the kind of sentence that pretends it doesn’t ache to write. you sat with it for what felt like hours— long enough for the coffee to go cold, long enough to wonder if maybe staying silent was worse than saying the wrong thing. the note didn’t move, but your thoughts circled it like grief.

you just sat at the table, phone in hand, trying to type the right words.

sent 09:42am: [ i didn’t mean it. ]

sent 09:42am: [ please talk to me. ]

sent 09:43am: [ come home rin. ]

none of them delivered. or maybe they did — and he just didn’t want to answer.

──★

the lock clicks just past midnight — long after you gave up checking your phone. like he came back only when he was genuinely sure you’d stopped waiting for him.

your body jerks awake where you’d accidentally dozed off on the couch — curled up, blanket barely pulled over your legs.

he stops mid-step when he sees you.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just stands there in the doorway, keys still dangling from his hand, his silhouette washed in dim light.

and then —

“why are you—” he stops. voice flat.

“...you shouldn’t sleep out here.”

you blinked hard, still groggy, heart pounding too loud to answer right away.

“i was waiting for you.. rin,” the words slipping out like a confession you’d rehearsed too many times to forget.

his eyes flicker — sharp for a second like instinct, then soften, like he almost let something show.

but just as quickly, it’s gone again.

blank. unreadable.

like as if he’s rebuilding the walls even as he looks at you.

“you said you hated me,” he says, quietly— not like an accusation, but like a memory he hasn’t been able to stop replaying.

“i didn’t mean it,” your voice breaks.

“i was tired. upset. i just… i mean i say things when i’m scared.”

he exhales, low and steady, like he’s trying not to feel too much at once. like he’s caught between staying mad and missing you.

“you were scared,” he repeats, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“and i was what? something safe to push?”

after he said that, the silence between the both of you is thick again. but this time, it feels more like a storm circling — not a goodbye. your head dips, slow, as if the guilt weighs heavier than the words did as you gave him a silent nod, but not a proud one, more like regret dressed in silence.

“i was scared of losing you. and i still am. i missed you so much rin..”

his shoulders ease, just barely — like he’s still holding onto the edge, but some part of him is tired of fighting.

“don’t say things you don’t mean,” he mutters.

“not to me.”

and then, so soft you almost miss it:

“i missed you too… come here now.”

౨ৎ SAE ITOSHI ౨ৎ

you still haven’t fully processed what just happened.

he didn’t yell. he didn’t slam the door, but it still stings — the way that you never truly got to talk it out with him before he went off.

you stood in the middle of the apartment like the argument was still ringing off the walls.

“i hate when you act like this — no… i hate you sometimes.”

and the worst part?

you’re not even sure if you meant it. or if you just needed to say something loud enough, cruel enough, real enough… to make him feel something back.

but now the apartment felt empty. almost as if, he took the noise with him when he left.

and you couldn’t stop staring at the door. like if you watched long enough, maybe he’d walk back through it — maybe he’d say something to make it okay.

but he didn’t.

──★

you sent two texts. one asking if he was okay. one trying to undo what you said.

he never replied.

but you stayed near the door anyway, just in case the silence meant something other than goodbye.

──★

he came back at midnight, hours after you’d given up sitting by the door, hours after you’d replayed the fight for at least a hundred times in your head.

you were curled up on the couch, half-asleep under a throw blanket, when you heard the key in the lock.

you didn’t move at first. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to. the door opened with a quiet click — then shut just as softly.

you sat up slowly, “sae…”

he paused, still facing the door as he took a breath.

“i’m tired,” he said, flatly.“can we not fight again tonight?” the words hit like a plea dressed as indifference.

you rose slowly, like the moment might break if you moved too fast.

“we’re not fighting,” you said softly.

“not anymore”.

after a pause that felt heavier than silence, you continued, “you know… i didn’t mean what i said.” you whispered.

silence.

and then without turning he said — “then why’d you say it?” his voice so quiet it almost felt like a thought, not a question.

your throat tightened, like the words were scraping on the way out.

“… because i was scared. and hurt. i thought maybe saying something ugly would make you.. i don’t know?? …look at me again??”

he finally turned around to face you, but not fully.

“wait… you think i don’t look at you?” his voice didn’t rise, but it cracked around the edges — like that was the one thing he never thought you’d doubt.

“not when it matters,” you said.“not when i’m falling apart in front of you.”

for a long moment, he said nothing then —

“i wasn’t ignoring you... i just didn’t know what to say without making it worse.”

your voice snagged on the ache in your chest. you tried to say something, but nothing came out. and then finally— finally he stepped closer towards you. no apology in his expression. no grand gesture, just a tired man standing in a dim-lit living room, looking at someone he wasn’t ready to lose.

“i’m still here,” he said quietly, staring straight into your eyes.

“even if i don’t always know how to show it.”

and the second those words left his mouth, you threw your arms around him — like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

he stayed still, the weight of you in his arms settling over him — something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. and then his hands found your back, unsteady, fingers trembling, almost as if he wasn’t sure he deserved this.

“i hate you,” you whispered, half-laughing, half-crying.

“not really. but kind of. but not really.”

you felt his chest rise with the smallest exhale.

“whatever,” he muttered.

“you’re annoying.”

but he didn’t let you go.

౨ৎ OLIVER AIKU ౨ৎ

he didn’t come back for three days.

no calls. no texts. not even a missed story view. he was gone — just like that. for a moment, it almost felt like the two of you had never been in a relationship at all. you almost wanted to call him, but you stopped yourself.

and then on day 4, he walked in like nothing happened.

like you hadn’t screamed that you hated him infront of everyone, like he hadn’t just straight up ignored you & then laughed too loud at another girl’s joke right after you said it. like his silence hadn’t stretched for days and made you question everything.

“yo,” he said casually, tossing his keys onto the dining table.

you stared at him. and he stared right back at you — like it really was just another random tuesday morning.

“so… did you make breakfast?” he asked casually.

“yeah… you want some?”

“nah,” he shrugged. “just checking if you still love me.”

you almost felt a laugh rise, but it got lost somewhere between your chest and your pride.

──★

the rest of the day passed like nothing happened. the two of you talked and joked like always. he picked an episode of something he knew would annoy you — and you watched it anyway.

halfway through, he even made popcorn, stole your favorite blanket, acted like everything was okay.

and maybe for a while, you let yourself believe it was.

but underneath it all, it felt too easy. like walking across a floor made of glass while pretending you didn’t hear it crack. and neither of you mentioned about what happened that day. until it happened.

your fingers grazed his when you handed him the remote — and you recoiled before he could react. but he didn’t move at all, almost as if your touch didn’t scare him the way his did to you.

neither of you spoke for a while. not out of peace, but tension. until you finally broke it with:

“sooo like… are we really not gonna talk about what happened that day?” your voice tried to stay light, but the tension bled through anyway.

he leaned back — tone sharp, eyes unreadable.

“talk about what, exactly? the part where you screamed that you hated me in front of like… twenty people?”

the air between you thickened — dense with everything unsaid.

“i was just… jealous,” you admitted.

“i felt invisible. and i wanted to make you look at me.”

he shifted then — eyes finally meeting yours.

“but i always look at you,” he said quietly.

“you just don’t always notice it when your head is full of every reason you think i shouldn’t.”

you couldn’t even meet his eyes after he said that.

“so… do you hate me now?”

you swallowed against the tightness in your throat, your voice trembling with something between fear and relief. like you’d waited too long to have this conversation with him — and now that it was here, it barely felt real.

“of course not,” he said without hesitation — but his voice carried something heavier underneath.

“but hearing you say that shit… yeah, it did hurt.”

his voice dropped, like he couldn’t believe you’d even ask him that question.

you leaned a little closer, gaze fixed on him like you were waiting for a sign or something to prove he still felt it too.

“and knowing you,” he said, a half-smile tugging at his mouth,

“you’ve probably been wondering where i’ve been for the past three days — but chose not to ask on purpose.”

he let out a quiet chuckle before continuing,

“… don’t worry, i was at sendou’s… infact, he saw how miserable i looked and almost called you himself — until i stopped him & begged him not to.”

you tilted your head and blinked slowly, a silent ‘really?’ stitched into your stare. like you genuinely couldn’t believe that he disappeared for three days, and that’s what he was doing? sulking in someone else’s living room while missing you in silence?

“you’re literally so annoying, you know that?”

and just like that, everything finally felt at ease again.

your relationship with oliver had never been conventional. it’s always been messy, loud, sometimes a little too raw — but you’d always known how to live in it, how to love in it. and you embraced it anyway.

“yeah… i know,” he said, leaning his forehead gently against yours.

“…but please don’t ever say that you hate me again,” he whispered. “even if you’re mad… especially not in front of twenty people.”

you nodded, then let out a quiet laugh — soft, shaky, but real.

“then maybe don’t make me feel like i have to scream just to be seen… idiot.”

౨ৎ NAGI SEISHIRO ౨ৎ

the thing about hurting someone like nagi was that he never told you where it hurt, he just stopped reaching for you.

same as before, during all your previous outbursts — he’d go silent, then walked off without reacting. no raised voice. no screaming. just quiet acceptance that stung more than yelling ever could.

after an argument, he’d head straight to the bedroom and collapse into his blanket — like always.

but that night, he didn’t scroll on his phone. didn’t ask if you wanted to order food. and didn’t say anything when you got into bed beside him either.

he just laid there, back turned to you, face buried in his pillow.

and maybe that would’ve been fine… if it weren’t for the way he kept his hands to himself. didn’t reach for you like he always did. no sleepy mumbling. no quiet complaints. and not even a half-whispered “come here.”

just silence.

you didn’t realize how loud the silence could be — the absence of him & the way it echoed in everything he didn’t do.

now you’ve finally had enough of his silent treatment, so you broke first.

“sei…”

but he didn’t answer.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered. “i didn’t mean it earlier.”

the silence lingered — long enough to make your chest ache, long enough to wonder if he’d even heard whatever you just said.

and then finally… he sighed. rolled over slowly. eyes tired, but open now to look at you.

“then don’t say things like that,” he murmured, voice low. “hurts too much.”

you almost cried then.

but he reached out first — pulled you into his chest, lazy in the way he moved, but tight in the way he held your body. and his head rested on top of yours, like that’s where it belonged all along.

“’s okay now… just please don’t hate me.”

and you didn’t know if it was the way he said it, or the way he held you — but suddenly, the silence didn’t feel so loud anymore. it just felt like home.

౨ৎ ISAGI YOICHI ౨ৎ

you didn’t know how long you stood there after he left — the door closing softly behind him, like even it didn’t want to make a sound.

your eyes drifted around the room, tracing the path he took when he left — almost like if you followed it closely enough, you could walk it backwards. back to the moment before it all went wrong between the both of you.

──★

three hours passed.

then six.

and before you know it, it was already midnight.

you could’ve texted him, but you didn’t. infact, you didn’t know what you would have said.

“i didn’t mean it.”?

“come home.”?

“i’m sorry.”?

as much as you didn’t mean it when you said that you hated him, a small part of you still held onto the anger — because deep down, all you really wanted was to feel loved by him again. you missed the way he used to show up, without needing to be asked.

so you kept your hands busy — cleaned the dishes. folded the laundry. sat on the couch just hoping that the silence would quiet down before your thoughts got too loud.

and then, around 2AM, you heard the lock click.

you turned your head so fast your neck cracked, and there he was, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes tired, but still the boy you’d never quite stopped looking for.

“… yoichi—” your voice barely made it out before he raised a hand — quiet, but firm.

he didn’t speak, just went straight to the bedroom, dropped his bag, then came back to the living room where you were still frozen on the couch.

and that’s when he finally said it, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it:

“so… you really meant it? that you hate me?”

you shook your head immediately. “no. no, i was frustrated— i was tired and— it wasn’t fair. i didn’t mean any of it.”

his gaze dropped.

“then why did it sound like you did?”

you got up without a word, walked towards him, and gently reached for his hand.

“… because i was hurting, not because i stopped loving you. and maybe i was selfish… but i just wanted your attention.”

“just wanted to feel like i still mattered to you.”

the silence stretched between the both of you. and just when you thought he might let go, he squeezed your hand back and said, “… okay.”

“… and i’m also sorry, for ever making you feel like you came second to practice or winning. you didn’t & you never did...”

afterwards, he leaned forward, slow and steady — until your forehead met his chest, like the rhythm of his breath was the only thing keeping you calm.

“just— remember this okay?? you’ll always matter to me… you always have. so let me make it up to you… wanna go on a date tomorrow?”

you almost cried right then — barely managing a soft,

“yes… i’d love to.”

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Triple Threat

♥ masterlist | request rules

♥ pairing: spiderman!franco colapinto x fem!chemist!reader

♥ synopsis: Franco's been obsessed with you since high school. The only person who understood chemistry the way he did was you. But even before that, you were his muse and a muse like yourself like you had a hard time picking between your crush on Franco and your crush on Spiderman.

♥ wc: 1.6k - as always none of the pictures are mine <3

♥ warnings: swearing, some vague canon-typical violence, and sexual tension !!!

♥ a/n: I NEED MORE PICTURES OF SPIDERMAN!! (franco colapinto)

Franco tapped his pen on a sheet of lined paper that was inconspicuously titled: Web Fluid 4.3.

Becoming a chemist major was the natural progression of his life and it only took three things to convince him. His reputation as a former salutatorian, pressure from his aunt, and the ability to swipe anything he needed from school labs.

Okay, it was mostly the last one.

“Salicylic acid, methanol…” he mumbled to himself as students filed out of the lecture hall.

His eyes shot up from the notes as he heard a ringing sound in his head.

You were standing at the foot of his desk, holding your textbooks, and ready to talk. His senses always went off around you.

“Hey,” he said, cutting you off before you even had a chance to speak.

His cheeks flushed and his head dropped with a soft laugh.

“Sorry,” he whispered to you with a smile.

You chuckled, “Beat me to it.”

Franco covered his notebook with his blue sweater engulfed arms in an attempt to shield the formulas he wrote down.

“Uhm,” he muttered, pushing his glasses back up his face. “Is there anything I can help you with?"

“Actually," you peered around the empty room and nodded. “Yeah, do you still do the photography thing? I know you took on the scientist route now, but if you still have your camera from high school I could use a favor.”

“Yeah, yes, of course, anything,” he stammered with a smile.

“I have a-“ you scratched your head and lightly laughed. “An article coming out soon for Oscorp and I need some pictures of myself.”

“If you’re free tonight I can…” he trailed off, hoping you’d jump in.

Your eyes lit up, “That’s perfect!” You grabbed your phone out of your pocket. “I’ll text you the location and we can meet up at 5?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Works for me.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you said with relief, placing your hand on top of one of his before leaving the classroom.

He tilted his head back on the chair with a widened smile and a deep exhale. He basked in this moment, regardless of how short lived it was.

His phone buzzed with the promised notification:

You

OSCORP, BUENOS AIRES 📍

we've got a beautiful view on the roof

-

It's been way too long since the two of you were alone. Senior year, I think? You were close but... not that close. At least not anymore. Franco likes to exaggerate it. You're now more like friends by proximity.

He squinted as he looked into the barrel of his camera, a smile plastered on his face.

"A little to the left," he gestured with his hand as you scooted over.

"Here?" you asked, smoothing some wrinkles on your outfit that bunched up when you moved.

"Perfect," he confirmed, holding up the 'ok' symbol with his unoccupied hand.

He probably took about a hundred photos of you. I mean, he just couldn't stop. Every picture was better than the last.

The sun began to set and your skirt flew in the cool winter breeze as the shoot wrapped up.

"What's your hourly rate?" you asked, pulling your phone out of your skirt pocket.

"Oh, no," he waved you off. "No need to pay me."

You met his gaze, "Are you sure?"

He nodded with a chuckle, "I'm sure." He looked down at his camera, "Consider it a favor for an old friend."

He ran a hand through his brown curls before continuing.

"And uh...," he took his eyes off the photos to look up at you, squinting from the sun. "My place is only a few blocks away if you'd like to come by and see the final product?

You nodded frantically, "Yes, I'd love to."

A slow smile grew on his lips, "Perfect."

-

His bedroom is the same. Red striped sheets, miscellaneous books piled in crevices, a map of the city above his desk, and of course, the cork board with red strings pinned against a thousand pictures of his parents.

You don't ask.

He sat down in the swivel chair, pushing his black glasses up, and zoning in on the computer. His screen lit up with something you weren't expecting to see:

You.

As the two top students at your high school, you got to know each other pretty well. The wallpaper photo was the two of you on grad night—still in your cap and gown, laughing. It's kind of blurry, but that just adds to the nostalgia.

Your features softened, “You still have that?”

He looked between you and the screen, “Yeah, of course I do.”

You braced your palms against the wood of his desk as he leaned his head back against the chair and looked up at you with his needy, almost lusty brown eyes.

Fuck, has he always been like this?

You gasped as your hand slipped off the corner of his desk causing papers to go floating to the ground.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," you stammered, kneeling to his carpet to pick everything up.

There were some assignments, random formulas amongst scribbles that resembled ones of a mad scientist, and a few printed out photos that you assumed he took.

Your eyebrow quirked as you caught a glimpse of a familiar red and blue suit in the pile of papers you gathered.

You flipped the card, eyes widening as the familiar figure was exactly who you thought it was.

"Is this Spider-Man?" you asked, staring closely at the photo.

"Hm?" he cleared his throat. "Oh uh, yeah. I take pictures of..." he paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Him—for the Daily Bugle.”

“Really?” you asked him curiously. “Do you not like him? The Daily Bugle kind of talks shit about Spider-Man-"

"No!" he cut you off. "No, no I love him, he's great—we're kind of close," he rambled. "It's just for the job. He doesn't mind that the pictures go there."

"Oh okay," you nodded. "I like him." you smiled. "You know, he saved my life once."

Franco's eyebrows raised and his mouth dried, “Did he?”

You nodded, trailing your fingers along his desk, "At some event for Oscorp, I was there with our boss's son. The terrace started to crack and... I would've died if it weren't for him."

"I remember that," Franco said instinctively. He cleared his throat, "On the news."

You nodded, "Yeah it was everywhere. I'll always thank him for that. No matter what the media says."

He smiled at you for a moment, taking in your features as you talked about him Spider-Man.

He broke the comfortable silence with a deep inhale, "I should uh- get to editing I guess."

-

Franco practically begged to walk you home but you insisted that he'd done enough favors for you tonight. The second you left he changed into his suit, headed out into his town of Pilar, and hoped he'd find you strolling safely home.

Unfortunately, you were having anything but that. For the past four blocks there was a group of men following just far enough behind you. Okay... maybe you're just going to the same place. ...Right?

You keep trying to tell yourself that, but they keep getting closer and closer and now they're so close you can hear their footsteps on the wet alleyway concrete. You start to speed up, heels clicking against the ground before they do too, and at this point you're running.

Thankfully, a certain someone was already there before they tried to pull something.

You swung at one of them, hitting him square in the nose as a white web yanked another one of the guys backwards onto the floor.

Spider-Man flipped from one of the buildings into the scene of the fight, leaving all four men in too much pain to get up or completely passed out.

Your head turned to the man, noticing that this time he was unmasked, but you were only able to catch a glimpse of his brown locks before he sprinted off down a corner.

"Wait!" you shouted before sighing, turning your back to the corner he ran to and assessing your surroundings.

He had quickly put his mask back on before hanging upside down off the fire escape stairs of the nearby building.

”Tienes un don para meterte en problemas,” he smirked under his mask.

You let out a sigh of relief when you realized who it was and laughed from his tone, “You have a knack for saving my life. I think I have a superhero stalker.”

He shrugged, “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You are…” you shook your head. “Amazing.”

“Some people don’t think so,” he muttered, referring to the way Daily Bugle talked about him. If only they knew.

“Well," you stepped closer, "I think so.”

“It’s nice to have a fan."

"Do I get to say thank you this time?" you muttered, pulling down the top of his mask.

“¿Estás seguro de que estás bien?” He asked in a whisper, soft pants escaping his lips.

Huh.

He kind of sounds familiar.

"Yeah..." you mumbled with a nod, barely hearing his questions. His lips were the only thing you could look at, for many reasons other than them being at your eye level.

You held his face and slowly connected your lips, rain dripping down from your hair and his chin, coating your cheeks.

You gasped softly as you pulled away, your forehead resting against him as you shut your eyes for a moment. You kissed him softly one more time before returning his mask to cover his lips.

"So," he said to you with a smile you couldn't see. "Do I get to walk you home now?"

-

a/n: bit of an open ending where the reader might find out that Franco is Spiderman mwahahahaha